


The Throats Of Birds

by randomdestielfangirl



Series: Hunter Husbands [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2016, F/M, He's not solo for too long though, Hunter Dean, John Lives, M/M, Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Post-Season/Series 02, Retired John, Retired Sam, Sam appears only on the phone, Solo Hunter Dean, Steve!Cas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-24
Updated: 2016-10-24
Packaged: 2018-08-23 13:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 21,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8329468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomdestielfangirl/pseuds/randomdestielfangirl
Summary: Two years after killing Azazel and preventing him from opening the gates of hell, things have calmed down for the Winchesters. With his father retired from hunting and Sam back at college, Dean finds himself wandering, looking for a purpose. He meets Steve, a gorgeous, blue-eyed waiter at a diner in Portsmouth and quickly finds himself attracted to the man. There may be a vampire on the loose nearby though and as Dean digs deeper, he finds that his new friend may not be too far away from the mess.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello :) So this is my very first DCBB and very first longfic of any sort. And I couldn't have done it without these people-
> 
> [ Lexi, ](http://www.caslikescoffeeandfreckles.tumblr.com/) My wonderful amazing beta, who transformed this piece of crap into something actually readable. Thank you for reading and re-reading through this multiple times, correcting my numerous errors and non-Americanisms. You're a superstar and I love and adore you till the end of time!  
> [ Jess, ](http://www.museaway.com/) For reading through this and correcting it despite your very busy time at work and explaining the mysteries that are American insurance cards and hospital systems. Thank you <3  
> [Sara, ](http://www.starmouse123.tumblr.com) My absolutely amazing artist, for creating such breathtaking art for this story. I loved working with you and thank you for taking a chance with my little story! You can check out all the art [HERE ](http://www.starmouse123.tumblr.com/post/152253645370/the-throats-of-birds-dcbb-2016-art)  
> [outpastthemoat, ](http://outpastthemoat.tumblr.com/) Who I harassed quite often at all hours having a nervous break down about editing. You helped me through it so kindly, I owe you a HUGE thank you!  
> All of the people on the dcbbnetwork on tumblr, who helped me out a lot during the writing process and constantly encouraged me.  
> The DCBB mods, who run this challenge every year. Please go read the other fics in this challenge as well, they're all fabulous!

 

_Ten Years Gone_ plays loudly over the speakers as Dean Winchester steps on the gas, the Impala gliding smoothly on the highway. It is a lovely, crisp, autumn afternoon, and Dean has just finished his first solo hunt in over two years.

Mr. Earl Gordie Hicks had been a docker in his lifetime before dying in an unfortunate accident while unloading some timber off a ship. A large log had come loose from the bunch, knocked the man down and overboard. As a ghost, he’d taken to pushing solitary passengers to their deaths in the ocean. It took three days, a lot of digging through the town archives, and three random pushes into nearby bodies of water before Dean found his grave and dug it up.

_Nothing quite like a good old salt-n-burn_ he thinks as he loudly sings along to the tape.

He had been slightly hesitant doing it alone after getting so used to having Sam around again, but he ganked the fucker without anyone else dying.

Dean turns down the volume as his phone starts to ring and he pulls over when he sees it’s his father. He checks the time— Kate must have just left for her afternoon shift at the hospital, leaving his father with a solid hour to go before he picks up Adam from school.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Dean. How did it go?”

“It went all right, sir. Just a regular ghost.”

“That’s good to hear, son.”

There is an awkward pause, and Dean grimaces a little at the image of his ex-hunter father puttering about a suburban house; unloading the dishes, taking out the trash and mowing the lawn on sunny weekends, trying to be a normal father and partner.

“Thanksgiving is coming up,” his father finally says.

Dean frowns into the phone. They haven’t acknowledged the holiday in years, but he supposes this is Kate’s doing.

“I’d like it if you both could come, you and Sam. It’ll be the first one after... well maybe not the first, but Sam was in the hospital for the last one, remember? We could all use a break, and you can go back to whatever you’re doing after,” John continues, either not noticing or not caring that Dean hasn’t replied. “Adam’s been asking too, he really misses you-”

“Have you asked Sam?” Dean interrupts. He really didn’t want to think about Adam now.

“No,” John replies quietly, “I was hoping you could talk to him first.”

“Dad, come on... why does it always have to be like this? Just ask him.”

“You know he’ll say no if I ask. He’s not really talking to me when he calls.”

“But—”

“Bobby is coming too.”

“He is?”

“Yes. Kate thought it would be nice for us all to get together.”

“That’s great, Dad. But—”

“Just... Please Dean. Come home, both of you.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Dean says, not willing to listen anymore.

“Good. You take care.”

“I’ll call later tonight,” Dean says, “before Adam’s bedtime.”

“You do that,” his father says, and Dean can hear him smile in relief. “Bye, Dean.”

Dean looks at the empty seat next to him, sighs and puts his face on the wheel, breathing in deeply. He needs to talk to Sam. He knows he shouldn’t have caved so easily, but a lifetime’s habit of obeying his dad when he used _that_ tone of voice isn’t easy to break. He drums his fingers on the wheel as the phone rings, hoping his brother isn’t in class, like the last few times he tried calling.

“Dean!” Sam’s voice rings happily in his ears. “I was thinking of calling you tonight. Where are you? I’m sorry I’ve been a bit busy the last few times, but I have a paper due and-”

“It’s okay, you giant nerd,” Dean interrupts, before Sam could get into a long-winded apology. “I’d be surprised if you weren’t a goody two-shoes and hogging all the books in the library. How’s Sarah even putting up with you?”

“I’m taking her out tonight if you must know,” Sam laughs into the phone. “But you didn’t answer me. Where are you?”

“Maine. Just finished a salt-and-burn.”

“You’re hunting again?”

“Dad’s contact. Sadler. Remember him? Called me after Dad’s voicemail redirected him I suppose.”

“Okay then. Good. It went well? You’re okay?” Sam babbles, and Dean can just see his concerned _I-don’t-understand-your-choices-but-I-will-be-supportive_ face.

“Dad called,” Dean says, distracting him.

“And?”

“He wants us to come over. For Thanksgiving.”

There is a pause as Sam takes this in, and Dean waits for him to refuse.

“Do _you_ think we should go?” Sam asks, to his surprise.

“I... I don’t know really. Don’t you have plans with Sarah or something?”

“Forget about me. Do you think we should go?” Sam asks again, his voice even.

Dean stares unseeingly out into the approaching darkness, not answering immediately. Going back means Sam and Dad circling warily around each other, trying to find non-combative topics to talk about. His father being bossy, throwing out a casual remark about Sam’s clothes or hair or studies. Sam bristling and snapping back. Dean always in the middle, unwilling to take sides, just wishing they’d stop sniping at each other. The strained silences at the dinner table, the arguments, the resentment...

But he _does_ want to see his father again, and Kate and Adam too. He’s missed the little guy. It’ll be a short visit, and Kate will be there to diffuse any tension.

“Maybe?” he says finally.

“Okay then,” Sam says quietly. “Why don’t you come down here? You can stay here for a while with me and we could go together.”

“I’ll be there in the afternoon tomorrow. It’s been a rough week and I need to crash tonight.”

“Sure. Just give me a call when you’re near and I’ll be home. Drive safe okay?”

“I always do. Say hi to Sarah for me. And for god’s sake get out and go to a few parties, get drunk, smoke a little pot, live a little, bitch.”

“Yeah, yeah... See you, jerk,” Sam huffs into the phone and disconnects.

Dean smiles, throws the phone into the seat beside him and starts to drive.


	2. Chapter 2

It is almost evening by the time Dean drives into Portsmouth. He finds a motel, not the pricier ones that boast indoor pools and free breakfasts, but a cheap one with thin walls and ragged carpeting. It’s almost luxurious compared to some of the places he’s stayed in, so he really can’t complain.

He has a quick shower in the tiny bathroom, puts on a slightly fraying pair of underpants with a T-shirt and looks for some clean clothes to wear while toweling his hair dry. Dean frowns as he pulls out pair after pair, all damp or covered in grave dirt. Giving up, he puts on his least dirty pair of jeans and shirt, repacks his duffel and grabs his jacket.

Opposite the motel, Phil’s 24/7 Dine In is relatively empty for a Friday night. Dean sits down and flips through the menu as he waits for some service. Mindless pop music plays loudly over tinny speakers, and a tired looking man sits morosely over burgers and a soda at one of the booths. The tables are shiny and orange, the walls a sad kind of moss green in color. Dean watches the motel parking lot idly out of the window. A family of five are getting their luggage from their car and arguing loudly about where to eat.

“Are you ready to order, sir?” a low, gravelly voice asks, and _Jesus Christ, that voice_. Dean abandons his people-watching and whips his head around to see a tall man with dark, messy hair, dressed in the hideous orange outfit of the diner staff ( _To match the tables?_ his brain supplies rather uselessly). On him, though, it manages to look good. Dean rakes his eyes over the man’s body, noting the tanned skin, lithe frame, and elegant hands with long fingers. Dean lifts his gaze to the man’s face, observes the strong jaw and high cheekbones and finds himself looking at the bluest eyes he has ever seen.

“Ummm,” Dean says, his brain scrambling around to say something, anything at all to avoid looking like a creepy lecher.  

“I asked if you were ready to order, sir,” the man repeats calmly, unabashedly staring straight into Dean’s eyes.

“Yes. I was just... Ummm, the bacon cheeseburger with onion rings,” Dean says, willing himself to look away from the guy’s intense stare. The plastic nameplate says Steve. There’s even a little star next to it. Dean looks at the slight stubble on his jaw, at the slender-looking throat he suddenly wants to lick.

 _What the fuck is wrong with me?_ he berates himself and looks away and back through the window.

“I’ll be right back,” Steve says and lopes off, and Dean releases the breath he wasn’t aware of holding in.  

He’s always been more cautious with picking up men. For one, there’s too much hassle in figuring out if the guy really is interested. Dean’s had a few nasty experiences with some guys suddenly getting a case of gay panic after some flirting and lashing out. And the sort of bars he frequents have a good share of homophobic assholes as well, and though Dean can take care of himself, it’s a pain in the ass. He’s had some flings with men, but overall it’s much more convenient to get a girl into bed. 

“Here you go,” Steve says, placing an unappetizing looking burger in front of him, along with the plate of onion rings. 

“Thanks, Steve. This looks... good,” Dean says doubtfully. 

“I hope you enjoy your meal. Do ask for me if there is anything else you require.” 

“Oh I will,” Dean winks at him, turning on the charm a little. Steve’s cheeks get a faint flush, and he nods a little shyly. 

Dean checks out his ass as he leaves, and settles down to his meal. After two bites he can see why the place is so empty. The bun is thick and tasteless, the whole thing dripping with grease and the onion rings are limp and soggy. It’s not the worst meal he’s ever had and, with so many years on the road, Dean has a cast-iron stomach. He finishes it slowly though, one eye on Steve as he cleans.    

“Would you like to order anything else, sir?” Steve asks as Dean finishes. 

“Nope. Just the check please,” Dean says, flashing a quick smile. 

“Very well.” 

 _At least it’s cheap,_ Dean smiles to himself as he pays, leaving a generous tip. The food might have been appalling, but the service was hot. Dean gathers his things and stands up, and Steve comes over to clear his table. 

“Hey, Steve?” Dean asks, wanting to hear the guy’s voice again. 

“Yes?” 

“Is there a laundromat nearby?” Dean asks him, perfectly aware that he can find one in five minutes flat. 

“There’s one four blocks away,” Steve says with his gravelly voice, stepping right into Dean’s space to point out the direction, and Dean stops listening to his actual words, taking in the low drone of that incredible voice, the bob of his throat as he swallows. He rakes his eyes over Steve’s body again- the man is built like a bull, with thick thighs, broad shoulders and a solid chest. Dean notes his muscled arms, imagines being pinned down by them while that smoky voice whispers dirty, dirty things in his ear and fights down a slight whimper. 

At some point, Steve must have finished talking, but he doesn’t move away. Dean instinctively sways a little closer and licks his lips nervously. The other man’s eyes flick toward them, long dark eyelashes fanning his cheeks. He’s close enough for Dean to feel his warm breath on his face. Dean tries to tug down his jacket to cover his growing erection, fighting the impulse to just grab the other man and rub himself all over that glorious body. 

They are alone, the morose man in the other table having left long ago. Dean’s heartbeat is thundering in his ears, so much so that can’t even hear the annoying music anymore. Steve’s lips are dry, and Dean wonders what it would be like to kiss him. To bend him over that hideous table and blow him in full sight of the parking lot while Steve grips at his hair with those long fingers. 

 _Fuck it,_ he thinks and leans forward. 

The door of the diner opens and two teenage girls burst in, giggling and clutching at each other. Dean jumps back, hits his leg on the table and upsets his dirty plates. Luckily they don’t break; so Dean hurriedly picks them up, deposits them on the table and limps out of the door and back to the motel without looking back.     

He goes to find the laundromat, unable to sit in his room. 

****       

He is still breathing a little hard by the time his laundry is sorted and in the machine. No one has ever made him lose control like this, not even that impossibly hot girl in the black top that he had banged in the library in Oregon. Dean sits down and pulls out his phone. It’s past ten, and Adam should be in bed by now, but Kate must not be home yet, and Dean just knows his little brother is waiting by the phone. He needs the distraction anyway. He calls and, sure enough, Adam picks it up at the first ring.

“Dean?” 

“Hey, little dude, how are you?” Dean says, feeling the weird tension drain out of him. He can picture the small smiling face at the other end, his upper two teeth missing, soft hair sticking up and dressed in his favorite Batman pajamas.   

“I’m okay. Are you coming for Thanksgiving? Is Sam coming? Dad said he was going to ask but Mom said-” 

Adam sounds breathless and high strung and Dean feels a stab of guilt. He remembers the little boy clinging to him before he left, those skinny arms looped around his neck, his tears dampening Dean’s collar. 

“Yeah we are,” Dean reassures him quickly, and there’s a whoop at the other end. “We’ll come soon, and have a lot of fun okay? Now tell me about school. What are you and your buddy Jason up to?” 

Adam tells him a long story about Jason’s new tree house, a spelling bee he won in school recently and is just starting on Ellie’s birthday party on the weekend when his father interrupts, and tells Dean that Adam should have been in bed a long time ago. There’s some muffled protesting and some wailing from Adam but at last he mumbles a good night to Dean and hangs up.  

Dean sighs, looking down at the phone in his hands. He should call more often.  

+ 

Eighteen months previously, they took out the demon Azazel before he could open up a damn devil’s gate and unleash who-knows-what horrors upon the earth. Sam was the most severely injured in the ensuing battle, his right elbow and hand broken badly, lacerations everywhere and a shallow stab wound in his side, right below the ribs. Dean had escaped with just a nasty blow to the head, a broken finger and a sprained ankle while John and Bobby were completely unscathed. Dean remembered the long drive to the hospital only in fragments — his father driving like a maniac, and Bobby trying to keep both of them awake and talking.   

Still reeling after an impossible victory, the three of them recuperated at Bobby’s place for a while. After the initial euphoria had passed though, Dean noticed his father becoming increasingly aloof and thoughtful. It made Dean nervous and irritable, upsetting Sam in the process, and there was a lot of shouting and arguing for weeks until Bobby gave them all an ultimatum to either work out their problems or leave. 

John had finally sat them both down and revealed the fact that they had a half-brother. That he had been in contact with him and his mother for the past three years. That Kate knew about the hunting and the reason for John’s lifelong crusade. That she knew about Sam and Dean. _She wants to meet you two_ , _have Adam get to know his brothers,_ his father had said. _She wants us to try to be a family. And I want to work things out, to have all my boys with me._  

What choice did they really have? They couldn’t stay at Bobby’s forever, though he had offered. Sam was still mending, and Dean was too used to just packing up and leaving, obeying his father without question when he asked him to come anywhere.   

Kate Milligan, Dean had reluctantly admitted after a tense, silent week spent under her roof, was all right. She had taken her son’s father disappearing periodically from his life on a mammoth revenge quest with equanimity. She didn’t bat an eyelash at their bandaged bodies, extensive weapon and book collection, at them salting every doorway and windowsill she had, and had instead welcomed them into her house and her life, never smothering or overwhelming them. She asked about their favorite foods (Dean noticed these appeared almost immediately at the table) and things to do, and kept conversation at the dining table light and easy. 

Adam was a frail, gap-toothed seven-year-old who was blissfully happy at his father coming home to stay. The addition of two grown up half-brothers didn’t bother him. Instead, he hero-worshiped Sam from the start, constantly trailing after him and asking questions, always wanting Sam to read to him and play with him. After the initial awkwardness, Sam seemed to warm up to the kid, indulging him as much as he could.

John quickly found a job at an autoshop and Dean joined him there after the majority of his injuries had mended. Sam took longer to get back onto his feet again, Kate helping out with driving him to the hospital for checkups, and arranging physiotherapist sessions for him. He slowly started getting movement back in his right hand, but Dean suspected that it would never really be the same— he would never be able to easily wield a knife or gun with that hand. Sam began looking to go back to school again, this time in New York, and getting back in touch with his old friends. 

They were almost happy then; all of them at the end of a long day, sitting at the table eating dinner together like a real family.      

It didn’t last. It never did, not with them. 

\+      

Dean sleeps badly that night. The lumpy mattress doesn’t help, and every time he drifts off he’s assaulted by images of blue eyes and slender fingers. At five a.m., tired, half-hard and annoyed, Dean wonders about how creepy it is to just jack off to the image of a stranger. 

Not that different from porn, actually. 

Suddenly a little excited, he pushes the covers off and palms his dick through his sweatpants, shuddering when even that little contact makes it jump and grow erect. He imagines Steve, his perfect mouth and his chapped lips mouthing the lines of his cock. He pushes his sweatpants down with one hand, kicking them somewhere away from the bed. There’s a faint light coming from a crack in the curtains. The cool air makes him shiver, and his cock is rock hard and touching his belly. 

He spits on his palm, licking it thoroughly and starts to stroke himself slowly, wanting to draw this out. He imagines Steve’s slender fingers pumping him, imagines kissing him. He runs his other hand over his hard nipples, pinching them a little. He wants to run his fingers through that dark hair, wants to bite and suck on the man’s throat and collarbones. 

Dean whimpers a little as he circles a fingernail over his slit, his other hand slipping down to tug at his balls and slowly circle at his hole. He has never done this before, preferring a quick handjob or blowjob with the men he picks up. It feels too intimate somehow. He suddenly wonders what it would be like to eat Steve out, to lick and push and prod his tongue at Steve's hole till the other man was nothing but a writhing mass on the sheets. Dean can almost _see_ his flushed cheeks, his beautiful hands gripping the sheets, the weight and smell of his cock so near..     

“Steve,” he groans, as his pace becomes more frantic, and the bed starts making squeaking sounds. Almost too soon he’s coming, his ears ringing, fireworks exploding behind his eyelids. Shaking and out of breath, he grabs the edge of a sheet to wipe off, and rolls over onto his stomach. He could go and grab a towel, but his entire body feels like it’s falling apart.    

It’s the most intense masturbatory session he’s had since he was a teenager, and it didn’t even need the image of Steve naked. It should be frightening, how attracted he is, but for now Dean feels too sleepy to care. He’s leaving in the morning and he doesn’t know if he’ll ever come back. He drifts off. 

****

It’s nearly eight by the time he packs quickly and is ready to leave. He’s barely had two hours worth of sleep, but he wants to get to Sam today. He feels some brief guilt about the sheets, but the roach he finds nesting in his shoes kills the feeling. He goes over to the Impala and tosses his bag in, and looks over at Phil’s. He really needs breakfast, and after last night, he’s better off going to a Biggerson’s on the way out of town. Besides, Steve must be off work by now. He gets into the car before he can brood some more, and peels away from the car park. 

The Biggerson’s is bland and boring, but at least the coffee is good and strong, and the pancakes are passable. Dean inhales his food, and gets another round of coffee. He can get to Sam’s by afternoon, and then maybe they could have lunch together. Meet Sarah. See the sights. Dean sighs, wishing suddenly he took a chance yesterday and got Steve’s number or something. Or at least followed through on the kissing. 

He flips through the newspapers idly, his self-imposed ban on them lifted after the ghostly docker, though he’s not really looking to hunt. It’s difficult to sift through a lot of crimes to what may be a supernatural one because more often than not, it’s generally just an asshole human being. But after years of this, Dean can literally sniff out potential cases, filtering through the crime details to get the little signs. He doesn’t need to sort today though, because right there in great big block letters reads the headline. 

“Local man found murdered: body completely drained of blood.”


	3. Chapter 3

Dean sets aside his cup and pulls the paper closer to him to read. 

“A murder investigation was launched today after a man's body was found completely drained of blood inside his home. Officers were called to the property, in Newington, at 8:45 a.m. yesterday. The death is being treated as suspicious and the man's identity is yet to be confirmed by police.  

The body was discovered inside the $2,500,000 single family home and officers are in the 'early stages' of the investigation. Police forensics experts and crime scene investigators dressed in overalls have been spotted going in and out of a house on Fox Point Road today.  

Part of the road has been sealed off and police are stopping people from crossing the cordon, with the exception of residents.” 

Dean scans the rest of the article, but it only involves quotes from the usual pearl clutching neighbors about how the area “is so safe” and how “shocking” it is.

Vampires. He’s almost sure it’s them, but it’s worth getting a look at the body to confirm. He quickly drains the rest of his coffee, sends Sam a text and changes carefully in the Biggerson’s bathroom into his fed suit. Half an hour later, he parks outside the Newington Police Department and checks his fake FBI badge and weapons. He makes a quick call to Bobby to confirm that his fake FBI supervisor line is still active.  

“The FBI wants to get on this case? Why?” Sergeant Tim Haight asks him suspiciously, not getting up from his chair. He’s a lean man in his early fifties, with graying brown hair and milky blue eyes.  

“We’re tracking a series of similar crimes,” Dean cuts in smoothly, and flips open his notebook.

“Lenox Boyce, forty-four. Wesley Sanders, thirty-six. Roger Winfield, eighteen. All from Boston. Found dead, bodies drained of blood. All over the past six months,” he continues, and smiles tightly at Haight, whose eyes are wide with shock. The vampire responsible for those attacks had been taken care of by a hunter friend of Bobby’s, but it’s the easiest way to ingratiate himself here.

“A serial killer? In our town? Jesus Christ,” Haight sputters, and gestures at Dean to sit down as well. “Victim’s name was Richard Donovan. He’s sixty-nine, and was a professor at Berkeley. His wife is from around here though, so when he retired, they bought the house and came up here. Nice couple, quiet and friendly.”

“Was she home the day before?” Dean asks.

“No. She had gone to visit her sister in Portsmouth and stayed overnight.”

“So no one was home? Who called the police?”

“Mrs. Donovan did, yesterday morning at 8:36. She’d just returned and discovered her husband’s body in the back yard.”

“Must have been a shock for her. Neighbors hear anything? When do you estimate time of death?”

“No later than eleven p.m. the previous night. And no, the properties are huge, and the neighbors didn’t hear anything.”

“Anything else unusual about the scene you think? Any blood anywhere? Signs of a struggle?”

“The whole thing’s unusual,” Haight sighs. “He was heavily injured, deep cuts all over, but not a drop of blood anywhere on the scene. The clothes he was wearing torn to shreds. It was like an animal had attacked him. We’re still waiting for the autopsy report to find the official cause of death. The weirdest bit? Water. He was drenched; head to foot and in a puddle. But it hadn’t rained, and he was nowhere near the bay or the swimming pool. No signs of dragging the body from there either.”

“In a puddle? That’s... strange,” Dean says, starting to a feel a prickle of doubt. He had known vampires to sometimes mutilate a body after they had drained it, but the water made no sense.

“I’ll need to have a look at the crime scene, talk to the widow and have a look at the body maybe,” Dean says, standing up.

“I’ll have a talk with my men on the scene and try to arrange a meeting with Mrs. Donovan. You can see the body by tonight I hope, before we release it to the family,” Haight says.  

“Thanks, Sergeant,” Dean says, shaking his hand.

“You’re welcome. If you need anything else just let me or Officer Duane know, and we’ll be happy to help in any way we can.”   

****

Louise Donovan is a petite, grey-haired woman with a soft voice and watery blue eyes. She looks exhausted but politely asks Dean to sit down in the study when he introduces himself as Agent John Bucklin. The windows are large and clear, and there is a lovely view of the waterfront. The room is beautifully done up in pleasing greens and beige with large shelves crammed with books, and comfortable looking armchairs with fancy cushions. There is a little table next to his armchair, with a tiny bronze horse and rider on it. There is a display case full of artifacts to the side, chipped ceramic cups, daggers, rings and arrowheads, and a large wooden casket.  

“This was Richard’s favorite room. These are all his things, his treasures. He taught Celtic languages you know,” Mrs. Donovan says and gestures vaguely at the room with a watery smile.

“I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Donovan,” Dean says quietly and bends forward to take her hand, slipping into his interview mode. He knows exactly how to ask for information without distressing people any further. Sure enough, Mrs. Donovan relaxes a little. She squeezes his hand gently before letting it go to wipe at her eyes delicately.

“I know this is painful for you, but could you please go over what happened that night?” Dean asks.

“Well, I left in the afternoon for my sister’s house, after lunch was finished. We were having Ashley’s— that’s my niece — baby shower. I was going to stay the night and help with the clean up and come back in the morning. I called him at ten that night, just to make sure he had eaten his dinner; he’s so bad at remembering when he’s busy. And he sounded fine. We were going to have brunch together the next day...” she trails off, beginning to cry in earnest.

Dean makes some soothing noises but doesn’t press further. Mrs. Donovan sobs for a while before wiping at her face again and breathes in deeply.

“I came home at around eight yesterday. Richard gets up early for a walk every day, and he always has coffee after. I went into the kitchen but he wasn’t there. I called for him and looked around the house.”

“Was anything disturbed? Did you look into every room?”

“Yes. I mean, I looked into every room and everything looked fine. I called him, but his phone was in our bedroom hooked up to charge. He always leaves a note on the kitchen table if he’s ever going anywhere, so I went into the backyard to see if he was checking on the garden. We’d planted some tulips, and...” she trails off again, looking wistful.

Dean waits.

“And he wasn’t by the flowerbeds, or the pool, so I went a little bit further, into the cedar trees, and there he was... I couldn’t even recognize him at first, he was so-” she bursts into tears again.

“I’m sorry, really sorry,” she gasps.

“It’s perfectly all right, ma’am. I’m very sorry to make you relive all this,” Dean says gently. “Would you like a glass of water?”   

“No, I’m fine. I’m sorry, I’ll tell you the rest,” she pauses for a minute, collecting herself and then continues.

“I was so shocked at what I saw... I ran back to the house and called 911. I don’t even remember what I told them, I was screaming and crying. They came soon enough, Jeff Duane, he was the first officer to come. He’s a nice boy, I’ve known of him for years. His mother and I went to school together.”

“Mrs. Donovan,” Dean says, “your husband, did he mention anything strange recently? Did he meet anyone new, from out of town maybe?”

“No... Richard hardly ever goes out, and he’s very shy. Never talks to anyone. And it’s a small town. I haven’t seen anyone new lately.”

Dean frowns. A vampire attacking someone at their home was rare, because it was easier for them to just pick up someone at a bar. Unless there was a personal connection. Maybe Mr. Donovan had a friend on the side.   

“How long have you lived in this house?”

“About six and half years.”

“Ever had any complaints? Strange noises, smells, cold spots?”

“No, never,” Mrs. Donovan says, looking a little baffled.    

“I see. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Donovan. I’d also like to look through the house and yard once before I leave.”

“You are welcome. And yes, please feel free to look around,” Mrs. Donovan says.

“That won’t be necessary ma’am. You've been a great help already. Will you be staying at the house or at your sister’s?”

“My sister Ellen is staying with me. My nephews and nieces are coming to... help with the funeral. I don’t want to leave the house till then.”

“I see. If you see anything suspicious or remember anything, please don’t hesitate to give me a call,” he says, passing her his number.

****

Dean does a sweep of the house from attic to basement with the EMF meter but finds nothing. It’s spotlessly clean, with large rooms, fancy curtains and high ceilings. Most of the rooms are filled with books and artifacts. The late Mr. Donovan must have been quite the collector.

Dean is just about to go into the backyard when Officer Jeff Duane, a slight blond guy who looks like a teenager, finds him and offers to show him the spot where the body was found.

It’s a beautiful garden, with a lovely deep pond off to the right side, its banks marked with shrubs. A small wooden pavilion overlooks the pond, with comfortable looking chairs. To the far left, there are the flowerbeds that Mrs. Donovan mentioned, and crab apple trees and sassafras beyond them. Dean and Duane walk toward the trees, past the flowerbeds and the rustic looking stone bench. The leaves crunch under their shoes as they walk, and they finally come to a stop under the Cedar trees.  

“Here’s where we found him,” Officer Duane says. “Horrible thing to happen.”

Dean discreetly turns on the meter again, but nothing happens. He examines the spot. The earth is still a little wet, and there’s no sign of any disturbance at all, no obvious signs of a struggle. But then again, the ground nearby is hard, and is unlikely to leave any useful marks. Dean looks around. He can’t even see the pool from here, and the bay is to the front of the house.

[](http://s1262.photobucket.com/user/israndomfangirl/media/DCBB%202016%20art/TTOB%201%20preview_zpswjnhn0jz.png.html)

“Horrible,” he agrees and dusts himself off. He needs to see the body.

****

Dean has a quick lunch, and looks through Mr. Donovan’s records all afternoon. He doesn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Based on the bank statements, the couple seemed to be well off. The house was mortgage free, and Mr. Donovan seemed to buy a lot of books online, along with a whole lot of gardening supplies. There are no traces of him having an affair of any sort, no regular outings to restaurants, no solo holidays, no presents. He seemed to be an essentially housebound man, putting his chances of coming across a random vampire extremely low.  

Dean sends Sam another text after going through the records, asking him about blood-sucking water spirits. He’s about to search for similar death records in the area when Sergeant Haight calls.

“Agent Bucklin? We have the body for you if you want to see it.”  

“I’ll be there,” Dean says and packs up the records into the Impala. “Did they give you the cause of death?”

“Fatal hemorrhagic shock due to cut-throat injury and multiple lacerations. No teeth marks. I guess it rules out an animal attack.”

“Too little information to really tell. I’m on my way,” Dean says and hangs up.

****

Richard Donovan’s corpse is shriveled and bruised, his grey eyes open. Dean looks over his entire body carefully, omitting nothing — the armpits, the floppy belly, underneath the penis, the backs of his knees. Dean examines the insides of the mouth, and the nostrils. The cuts on the body and across his throat are all clean and thin.

And there is no trace of a bite mark anywhere.   


	4. Chapter 4

“Definitely not vampires then,” Sam says, as Dean makes his way to the Impala, loaded with files.

“Any other ideas? Were the pictures clear enough?” Dean asks him, dumping everything into the backseat.  

“I don’t know... Kelpies? They spit out entrails near water sources. Doesn’t look like them though. Give me a day or two. I’ll ask Bobby, too. You’ll look through the history of the town in the meantime?”

“Yeah, I will tonight. I’m driving back to Portsmouth and getting a motel room now.”

“Why? You can just stay in Newington.”

“Ummm,” Dean stutters a little, thinking of blue eyes and strong hands “nah, the motel I stayed in yesterday was pretty great. And it’s only a twenty-minute drive.”

“Okay. Call me if you think of something else,” Sam says, fortunately not noticing anything.

****

He stands outside Phil’s, with wet hair and dressed in one of his nicest shirts, hesitating. He’s a little apprehensive about facing Steve again after behaving like a complete weirdo yesterday. But then again, he does need to eat. And Phil’s is right opposite the motel. He could finish quickly and get back to researching Newington’s crime history. And the burgers from yesterday weren’t _that bad_.

“You’re back,” Steve smiles at him when he comes up to him to take his order. He looks perfectly composed, so luckily he has not caught on to the fact that Dean was going to kiss him senseless the last time.  

“Ummm yeah. I kind of had to,” Dean stutters, blushing involuntarily at the sound of that gravelly voice.       

Steve looks like he’s waiting for him to elaborate, but Dean’s brain is too busy cataloging the exact shade of blue of Steve’s eyes, the pinkness of his full lips.  

“Are you ready to order then?” Steve asks, breaking into his reverie.

“Yes! Ugh, I mean...” Dean looks down at the menu vaguely. “What would you recommend?”

Steve lifts his shoulder slightly and lets it fall, pinching his eyebrows together.

“I wouldn’t recommend anything to be honest. This place is not exactly known for its gastronomic delights. I’m surprised you came back after that appalling burger yesterday.”

“No? Must be your gorgeous face that pulled me back in then,” Dean says before he can stop himself.

Steve just stares unblinkingly into his eyes, tipping his head a little to the side like a curious bird. He wets his full lower lip and, to his horror, Dean finds himself getting hard.

“Okay then, what sucks the least? I’m not picky,” he says hurriedly, before the pause gets too long. He scoots a little closer to the table, hoping that his semi wasn’t too obvious.

“The Terlingua chilli isn’t too bad.”

“Chilli it is then, with cornbread,” Dean folds up the menu, shifting uncomfortably. “And I’ll have a serving of your chocolate chip pie for dessert.”

“Very well.”

Steve is right. The chilli isn’t too bad, but the cornbread is dry and flat-tasting. The pie tastes scorched. Despite this, Dean finishes it all slowly, flipping through the case files. He occasionally glances up at Steve bustling about, the diner is slightly busier tonight, and it’s nearly eleven by the time he’s done.

“Was it acceptable?” Steve asks him, face a little anxious, as he brings Dean the check.

“More than acceptable,” Dean lies. “I should let you pick every time.”

Dean forgets to breathe as Steve smiles at that, wide and toothy, eyes crinkling. His entire face transforms into something so bright and joyous, that Dean is almost blinded by it. His heart thuds painfully inside his chest and he just wants to reach out and _take_.

“Any place to get a drink around here?” Dean asks abruptly.

“There’s a bar three blocks away.”

“Could you show me?”

“Are you asking me out?” Steve asks, head cocked, the smile fading from his lips.

“Maybe? I mean, yes,” Dean says, throwing caution to the wind. He wants this guy bad, and he’s suddenly willing to get kicked in the teeth for it.

There’s a long pause, and Dean forces himself to hold the man’s probing gaze.

“My shift finishes in twenty-five minutes. I’ll meet you outside,” Steve says, and leaves with the plates.

****

Half an hour later, Dean’s in the Impala, trying to breathe deeply. He still jumps a little when Steve raps on the window, and nearly hits him as he opens the door. Steve climbs in, all long limbs and messy dark hair, still smelling of grease and cheap detergent. He’s dressed in blue jeans and a polyester white shirt with his sleeves rolled up. His wrists are surprisingly delicate looking, and his palms are red-raw and cracked, possibly from scrubbing too many dishes. Dean wants to take his hand, to gently stroke at the cuts.   

“Are we leaving now?” Steve asks, and Dean tears his eyes away from his hands to start the Impala, trying desperately not to blush like an eleven-year-old girl.

The Blue Lounge is lively and casual, with good music and friendly staff. It is pretty crowded, but Dean manages to find seats in a quiet corner and orders them some beers. He drains his first couple quickly to dissipate his nervousness and soon finds himself pleasantly buzzed. This is familiar ground, sitting in a nameless bar, chatting up a gorgeous stranger. Steve, however, looks uncomfortable and out-of-place. He’s dutifully knocking his alcohol back at the same pace as Dean, but continues to look stiff.   

“Hey,” Dean says, feeling bold and touching his arm gently, “relax man.”

Steve starts a little, but does relax. Dean smiles at him, but doesn’t move his hand.

“I like this song,” Steve says abruptly, “I’ve never heard it before.”

“You’ve never heard _Round and Round_?”  

“No.”

“Man, you must have lived under a rock all this while. This, this was good music. Hear that guitar solo? Badass! The sort of music that comes out now... it sucks.”

“I do like the music they play at the diner too,” Steve says mildly, his eyes twinkling.

Dean gapes at him, and then launches into a huge lecture about why the shitty teeny-bop pop stuff they play at the diner is not music at all, just auto-tuned garbage. Steve’s blue eyes are fixed on Dean, taking in every word carefully, like what Dean is saying is important stuff, not alcohol-fueled babbling. He takes no offense at Dean’s rather vehement opinions about music, and only nods at the right moments. He’s leaning into Dean’s touch now, tapping at his almost empty bottle, his posture completely relaxed.

They sit in companionable silence for a while, listening to the music and people watching, and Dean has never felt so comfortable with a stranger in his whole life. Dean finishes his beer, and is about to get another when Steve wraps his long fingers around Dean’s wrist, sending sparks shooting through his body.

“It’s getting late. And you shouldn’t have any more to drink.”  

Dean can easily have a few more, but he’s hypnotized by the other man’s touch and voice, and agrees. They go back out into the cool night air, Steve’s hand still around his wrist, only letting go when they reach the Impala. All too soon, they are in front of the diner again.

“Where to?” Dean asks, a bit reluctant to let him just leave.

“I’ll get out here,” Steve says. “Thank you for inviting me. I enjoyed it very much.”

“No problem,” Dean blushes.

Steve smiles at him warmly and is about to open the door when Dean grabs his arm without thinking. He turns his head to look at Dean, quizzical. Dean opens his mouth, but nothing comes to his mind.

He can’t let the night just _end_ like this. Steve’s eyes are calm and patient, waiting for him to say something. But Dean is never any good at talking. Instead, he leans forward slowly, giving enough time for the other man to push him away, and presses their lips together. There’s a slight intake of breath from Steve, before gentle fingers come up to stroke the side of Dean’s face. Dean sags in relief as he deepens the kiss automatically, licking at the seam of the other man’s lips.

Steve opens his mouth, and Dean’s tongue slips inside, his arms coming up to pull the other man to him. They continue to kiss like that for several minutes, straining toward each other, Steve’s arms running up and down Dean’s chest, his hands slowly slipping inside Dean’s shirt. Dean gasps at the first touch of Steve’s fingers on the bare skin of his waist. He pulls back a little, and Steve’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes glittering. Dean holds his gaze for a moment before Steve surges forward and kisses him hard, their teeth clacking, his tongue licking into Dean’s mouth. The erection that Dean has been trying so hard to suppress all evening is back, and he whimpers involuntarily when Steve sucks hard at his lower lip.

He needs more contact, and he’s not sleeping with this guy in the Impala in middle of the street.

“Come on,” Dean says, pulling back and reaching for the keys, trembling. “Can’t do this here. I’ll just park the car.”   

Steve looks at him dazedly, his lips wet and swollen. Dean doesn’t wait for him to answer, and almost drags him into the motel after he parks the Impala. They continue to kiss and touch each other in the hallway, and Dean drops the key multiple times before he can unlock the door. After he does though, he hesitates.

“You’re okay with this right? You want this?”

“Yes,” Steve says, dead serious, voice even more gravelly than before and _god help him_ , it is the hottest thing Dean has ever heard.

They stumble into the room together, and Dean has just enough time to close the door before Steve grabs him and proceeds to attack his mouth. Dean’s back hits the door knob, but he barely feels it as he feels the solidness of Steve’s body against him. Dean whimpers and tries to grind against him, but he’s caged between Steve’s arms and their erections are rubbing together so slowly it’s almost torture.       

_Too many clothes._

Dean breaks off the kiss, shrugs off his jacket and almost tears the buttons off Steve’s shirt as they stumble backward onto the bed. He finally gets it off, his hands now feverishly working on the other man’s pants and underwear. Steve groans, throwing his head back, and Dean pauses in his efforts to take his own pants off to suck at Steve’s collarbone. Steve groans again, louder, and hooks his fingers into Dean’s shirt, and brings him closer to kiss him.

“Shoes. Off,” Dean gasps, and proceeds to kick his own off before ripping his shirt off his head. He swears he hears a button pop, but he’s distracted by the sight of the naked man on his bed. Steve’s body is everything and nothing like what he had imagined, dark chest hair trailing towards his navel, his limbs tanned and muscled, and a tattoo of what looked like a mandala on his chest. His cock is red and swollen, and he shivers when Dean gently brushes his hand over it.  

“God, I wanted you the second I saw you,” Dean says, and Steve hisses out a breath when he wraps his hand around his cock. His eyes are black with arousal, and he bucks into Dean’s hand, writhing back into the mattress. Dean pumps him slowly for a while, and then dips his head to kiss him. Steve all but grabs him then, flipping Dean backward onto the mattress with sudden strength, his strong arms pinning Dean down.  He proceeds to kiss Dean thoroughly, their cocks slotting together and grinding slowly. He’s never been man-handled like this before, but there’s something deeply satisfying about it.

They are both dripping with pre-come, and it’s hot and sticky and the most erotic thing Dean has ever experienced. Steve whimpers into his mouth as Dean pinches his nipples, and that broken sound prompts Dean to grind against him a little faster. Steve gasps at the friction, and Dean breaks off the kiss to suck another bruise into his neck.

Steve’s hands wander off between them to grab at Dean’s cock, his palm dry and calloused around Dean’s dick and that makes him lose any semblance of control. Dean thrusts wildly upwards, fucking into Steve’s hand. The pressure is building in him, and Dean’s so frigging close he could scream. He kisses Steve again, his tongue thrusting into Steve’s mouth, his other hand gripping the man’s hair tight.

“Steve...” he gasps as he comes, and the man flinches a little in his arms, his movements stilling abruptly. Dean continues to grind against him, and then with a hoarse cry Steve’s coming as well.

They lie like that for a while, arms around each other, breathing hard. Steve eventually rolls off him, and Dean reaches across the bed for his towel. He does a perfunctory clean-up and throws the towel next to the bed. He then turns on his side to smile at Steve, and gently stroke his hair. Steve smiles back at him gingerly, scooting a little closer to Dean.

“I don’t know your name,” Steve says, after their breathing comes back to normal.

“It’s Dean,” he laughs, pulling back to give Steve an incredulous smile. He feels unbelievably sleepy and sated.

“Dean,” the other man repeats, and something about the way he says it sends a thrill across his heart.

“Stay. The night, with me,” Dean says, pulling him into his chest. Steve nods in response, and tightens his arms around him. Steve’s hair smells of bacon grease and cheap shampoo, and tickles Dean’s nose, and his socked feet are warm. Dean presses a soft kiss to the side of his head before dropping off to a deep sleep.

****

Louise Donovan wakes to the sound of dull clunking.

“Ellen?” she calls out. The room is dark and no one answers. Tying her robe tightly around herself, she gets into her slippers and slowly pushes open the door.

It is a rhythmic sound, and seems to be coming from the kitchen.

“Ellen, is that you?” she calls again.

No one responds and the sound doesn’t stop. Did she leave something on? Was the water running?

Almost on cue, there is a splashing sound, followed by a series of heavy thuds.

She hesitates by the door, wondering if she should call someone. The splashing sound continues, and she gingerly steps out of her room, making sure she grabs her cell phone. She slowly makes her way toward the kitchen and peers inside.

The kitchen is dark and she fumbles around for the light switch and flips it on.

Nothing happens.

She turns on the torch on the cell phone, and directs the light into the room.  

There is someone there. Or rather, _something_.

Three figures, dressed in moss green, their heads completely covered...

And something white in their clawed hands...   

She stumbles backward with a sharp cry and drops her phone as she tries to race back to her room.

Something wet grabs her legs and drags her backward into the dark kitchen. She screams and screams as something wraps around her, and screams some more as claws proceed to tear her apart.

No one hears a thing.       


	5. Chapter 5

Dean doesn’t want to wake up. The clock says five a.m., which means he’s had a mere two hours of sleep. Steve is warm and comfortable in his hold, his breath coming gently over Dean’s arm. But he really, really needs to pee. Sighing, he shifts Steve’s head gently on to the pillow, and goes to the bathroom. He stumbles back into bed after, re-draping himself over the other man.

“Dean?” Steve says groggily, shifting around to face him. He can hardly open his eyes.

“It’s nothing. Go back to sleep,” Dean smiles at him and strokes his soft hair.  

Steve smiles vaguely at him, before bringing his head forward to sloppily kiss him. Dean kisses back, his fingers still in Steve’s hair. They continue to kiss and touch for a while, and it’s pleasant. Dean has never really done this before, even with Cassie. He’s never really kissed people for the sake of it, without the promise of sex afterward.

“You’re very attractive,” Steve says abruptly, breaking off the kiss to stare at Dean.

To his extreme embarrassment, Dean blushes. He’s used to receiving compliments about his appearance, but something about the way Steve says it, the intense tone of his voice, the way he seems to really look at Dean, makes him feel very vulnerable.

“I was very surprised and pleased to see you yesterday,” Steve continues, clearly oblivious to Dean’s discomfort.

Dean kisses him again, mainly to shut him up more than anything. It gets passionate a little too fast, and they are both rock hard as Dean bites down Steve’s stubbled jaw, his hands pulling at the man’s hair. Dean trails kisses down his abdomen, Steve gasping and bucking against him, his cock hitting Dean’s jaw.    

“Dean... ” Steve rasps. “Dean, I-”

Dean looks up, and meets Steve’s eyes, glazed over with lust. 

“Are you clean?”

Steve looks uncomprehending for a second before nodding, his cheeks red.

“Yes. I mean, I should be because I’ve never- Um. Before, with anyone.”

“Then I’m going to make sure you have a good time.” Dean says gently, patting his thigh. Steve looks up at him and smiles.

Dean grins at him wickedly, and holding Steve’s gaze, licks his shaft slowly. Steve moans, throwing his head back. Dean keeps licking, sucking off the pre-come dripping from Steve’s cock, and puts his lips over the head. His fingers play with Steve’s balls, and the man lets out another loud whimper when Dean starts to move his mouth up and down.

He keeps his eyes locked on Steve, though and the other man stares right back, biting his lips in a way that goes straight to Dean’s dick. He continues to suck hard at the other man’s cock, his saliva dribbling out through the sides of his mouth. His hand drops down to stroke at his own cock, keeping his touch deliberately light. He’s enjoying this, this teasing, this intensity. He moves his mouth a bit faster, hollowing his cheeks out, taking Steve’s cock in as far as he could go.

“Dean!” Steve shouts almost immediately, grabbing Dean’s head and yanking him off, as he comes in hot thick spurts all over Dean’s face. A minute later Dean’s coming too, almost untouched, his vision blacking out for a second. He’s trembling when he moves up to collapse on top of Steve, uncaring that his face is still covered with the other man’s come. Steve tugs at his hair and kisses him anyway, long and slow and deep.  

[](http://s1262.photobucket.com/user/israndomfangirl/media/TTOB%204%20doness_zpsdnvrjggi.png.html)

They lie there for a while, foreheads touching; and Dean’s too dazed to even move to get another towel when his phone buzzes. He thinks briefly about letting it ring, before grabbing it and sitting up. He frowns when he looks at Jeff Duane’s name.

“Agent Bucklin,” Dean says, smiling awkwardly at Steve and trying to get into his clothes.  

“This is Jeff Duane. I’m sorry to call you so early.”

“No problem, Officer Duane. What’s the matter?” Dean asks him, stepping out of the room and gently shutting the door behind him.           

“It’s Mrs. Donovan, sir. She was found dead in the house.”

“Same injuries?” Dean barks, running his hand through his hair in frustration.

“Yes sir, down to the puddle of water the body was found in.”

“Who found her body? Estimated time of death?”

“Her sister, sir. We think she was killed around midnight.”

“Shit. I’m on my way,” Dean says, and hangs up. He punches the wall. He was there, _right there_ all day yesterday and he couldn’t find whatever it was. And now another person had died, slipping straight through his fingers.   

Frowning, he steps back into the room. Steve’s pulling on his shirt, which is definitely missing a few buttons.

“Are you all right?” he asks Dean, his blue eyes concerned.

“I’m fine,” Dean forces himself to smile. “Listen I have to go. I just got a call from work and I’m really sorry-”

“It’s all right, Dean,” Steve says warmly. “I need to leave as well. I have a few errands to run.”

This should be perfect, them walking away from each other, one great night (and, well, morning) of sex and no strings attached. Dean feels a sudden chill creeping through him. He’s still not prepared to let this go.

“Wait,” Dean says, hurrying toward his duffel and pulling out a T-shirt. “You can’t walk out like that,” Dean gestures at Steve’s ruined shirt, his cheeks a little red. Steve stops trying to finger comb his hair flat and takes it from him with a small smile.

“I’ll return this to you,” he says, his voice all smoky and gravelly. “Thank you, Dean. I’ll let myself out, I’m sure I‘m in your way.”

“Yeah, man, no problem. I’ll just hurry up then,” Dean blushes and escapes into the bathroom as Steve starts to look for his socks. He brushes his teeth, shaves, has a quick shower and is dressed in his fed suit in fifteen minutes. He’s about to pick up his cell phone and wallet and run out when he notices the takeaway cup of coffee sitting on the night stand. It’s from Phil’s, and Dean finds himself feeling ridiculously giddy as he picks it up and leaves the room.   

****

Dean looks over the crime scene dispassionately, not letting himself think of the body as the sweet woman who spoke to him yesterday. Louise Donovan’s corpse lies crumpled on the floor in her kitchen. Her clothes are shredded to ribbons around her, revealing deep cuts in the papery skin, and her eyes are open and glassy. She’s sopping wet and there’s a huge gash in her throat. A stool lies upturned near her body, but the rest of the kitchen seems completely undisturbed. Her cell phone lies just outside the kitchen, its battery dead.

Dean frowns. Something is _off_ about the scene, but just what it is keeps slipping from him.

“Who did you say found the body?” he asks Duane.    

“Her sister, sir,” Duane says, sounding upset. He looks exhausted, his uniform crumpled and chin unshaven.  

“Her sister? She wasn’t staying here?” Mrs. Donovan had definitely told him that her sister was going to be in the house.

“She was, sir. She says she heard nothing,” Duane says, a pinched look coming into his eyes.

Dean purses his mouth, confused. If she was surprised and her throat cut, no one would have heard her. Yet to not even hear the signs of a struggle, the stool upturning...

“I’d like to speak to her,” he says, continuing to examine at the corpse. There must be something that he’s missing.

“She’s had a nervous breakdown, sir. In no position to talk right now. It was a horrid discovery to make,” the other man prattles on but Dean’s stopped listening. He snaps a few pictures of the scene, cuts Duane off mid-sentence and tells him to call if any new information comes up.

He needs to really hit the books.

****

He goes back to the motel and sends the pictures off to Sam, with a message to look through them as soon as he can. He then settles down to look through the town’s crime records and its local history.

Five hours later, Dean hasn’t found a thing. There’s no such incident reported since the town was established. The history of the house is clear. Dean tugs at his hair in frustration as he leans back in his chair, going over everything in his head again. His head is throbbing, having had only that one coffee since waking up. Maybe he should take a break.

He gets up to order himself a pizza, and is rooting through his leather jacket for change when he feels it. A small bag lies innocuously in one of his inside pockets, and Dean feels his heart pound furiously when he examines it closely. A hex bag.

Dean drops it on the nightstand, and picks up the suit jacket that he’s draped over the back of the chair. Another one appears, almost identical to the first. He grabs his duffel and goes through his clothes. He finds another one in his spare suit jacket. Dean is pretty sure none of them were there last night when he went out for drinks with Steve.

Steve.

Dean suddenly remembers the way the man had flinched when Dean had called him by name.      

Bile rises in Dean’s mouth. A witch. Dean should have known, should have guessed that Steve was clearly not who he appeared to be. He wasn’t even doing a great job of pretending, it was just Dean’s desperate desire for him that made him lower his guard. Dean doesn’t even know if the attraction he felt was real.

He couldn’t have killed Mrs. Donovan though. Not unless his powers included murdering without need for his physical presence. Which they could, because witches were nasty evil pieces of scum.

Dean slumps down in his chair, head in hands. He needs to confront “Steve.”

****

He calms down after a while and checks the entire room thoroughly, but doesn’t find anything else. He dismantles the hex bags and puts them in his jacket. He waits till evening, researching the contents of the bags and their maker till then, arms himself to the teeth and crosses over to Phil’s.

Steve gives him a radiant smile as he enters, and Dean smiles back with difficulty. He still doesn’t have any real plan about how to do this.

“Can I talk to you? It’s important. Come back to my room with me,” Dean says, his heart pounding.

“Of course,” Steve says, his blue eyes warm and concerned. “Are you all right?”

Dean’s mouth is dry. He forces himself to nod jerkily.

“All right,” Steve says, frowning a little. “Let me talk to my colleague and ask her if she can cover my shift. No one’s here anyway.”

He pats Dean’s arm gently, and Dean flinches away from the touch. Steve looks taken aback for a minute, but recovers quickly and disappears into the employee break room. A minute later, he’s back with a petite blond woman. Dean makes sure to turn away from her so she wouldn’t get a good look at his face just in case he needs to, well, leave town in a hurry.

“Thank you, Nora,” Steve says, and turns to Dean. “Shall we?”

Dean nods and walks out of the door dumbly. He feels for his gun, and it’s still there. He just hopes he’ll be able to go through with it if Steve is his man.

****

He offers Steve a glass of water with holy water mixed in as soon as he enters. Steve looks confused, but drains it anyway. Dean watches him intently and sits down, Steve coming up to sit opposite him at the rickety table, carefully not touching Dean. A pause follows, where Dean deliberately keeps his eyes on the floor, his hands in his pockets.

“I need you to tell me the truth,” Dean says slowly, and takes out the dismantled hex bags. “Are these yours?”

“Yes,” Steve says calmly, and Dean jerks his head up to look at him. Steve’s blue, blue eyes are steady as they meet his. Dean’s throat tightens. A small part of him had continued to hope that Steve had nothing to do with any of this, that he was just an ordinary guy. He pulls out his revolver and aims it at Steve.

“You are upset,” Steve states blandly, his eyes wide and confused.

“Yeah, I’m fucking upset. You put hex bags in my stuff. You’ve lied to me and manipulated me from the very start. What are you? What are you doing here?” Dean explodes, his hands shaking slightly.

“I put the bags in to protect you,” Steve says, tilting his head in that otherworldly way again, his voice still soft. “You are a hunter. You were going to a place where at least one murder of the supernatural kind had already been committed.”

Dean freezes and tightens his grip on the gun.

“How do you know I’m a hunter? What do you know?” he bites out, ignoring the protecting bit.

“My mother was a psychic and a faith healer. She would help out with the odd exorcism. I’m not a hunter myself, but we used to sell ingredients and equipment to our clients.”

“Okay, that still doesn’t explain how you knew I was one.”  

“This room, Dean. The windows are lined with salt. There is a tiny devil’s trap etched into the floor by the door. Obviously you were a hunter,” Steve says with some exasperation, remarkably calm for someone who has a gun pointed at him.

“And as for how I knew about the murders, the news,” he continues. “Mr. Donovan. And his wife, too. I’ve been trying to find what creature it could be.”

“How do I know it’s not you?”

“I’m not a murderer. And anyway I can’t kill anyone. I don’t have any powers. If you’ll allow me-” he cautiously reaches for the hex bags and opens them up properly- “areca nut. Turmeric root. Silver coin inscribed with Enochian sigils. Hematite. It was the best protection charm I could come up with in five minutes.”

Dean chews on his lip, torn. A tiny part of him really, really wants to believe Steve. But he hates and distrusts all forms of magic, and the underhanded way Steve had gone about it set off alarm bells he really couldn’t ignore. The other man continues to hold his gaze, his blue eyes apologetic.

“I’m not performing any magic, Dean. Certain ingredients keep supernatural forces at bay and assembling them in the right quantities and proportions increases their potency. Many cultures and faiths across the world freely use them, it’s not unusual.”  

“Why did you lie? If you knew I was a hunter, why didn’t you just say so? Why slip these in without telling me?” he asks Steve after a minute, lowering the gun, but retaining it in his grasp.

“I didn’t know you were one till I came back to the room with you and we were- uh, otherwise occupied.” Steve’s cheeks redden, and to his horror, Dean feels himself blushing as well. He looks away in some annoyance, reaches for his silver knife and beckons. Steve obediently holds out his hand lets himself get nicked.

“You were in a hurry in the morning. I was going to come to your room in the evening and explain everything, try to help you with this monster. I just didn’t want you hurt before then.”

Steve seems sincere enough, unless he’s trying to make Dean lower the gun so he can turn him into a gerbil. He says as much to the other man, who laughs. Dean’s treacherous heart skips a beat at the sound, and his lips curve up into a smile before he can help himself.

“I can’t do that, Dean. I really am just a waiter.”

His blue eyes are earnest, and Dean finds himself believing him despite the voice in the back of his head, which sounds too much like his father, telling him he’s a fool. He has a headache and he hasn’t slept or eaten properly in days. Dean puts the gun aside, and rubs his hand over his eyes.

“What is your name, Steve? The real one?”

Steve looks startled for a second, then a little sheepish.

“My name is Castiel.”


	6. Chapter 6

“Castiel? I can see why you picked Steve as an alias.”

“It’s the name of an angel. The angel of Thursday. My mother found the name in a book and liked how it sounded I suppose. She wasn’t very religious.”

Dean sighs and droops in the chair.

“I’m sorry I deceived you,” Castiel says earnestly. “I was going to tell you everything after my shift tonight. Dean, I understand that you don’t trust me right now, but I think I can help you with the murders. I do have some excellent old books and my mother’s notes have a lot of information on supernatural creatures.”

Dean hesitates and slowly nods. He doesn’t really want to do this, but he’s hitting dead ends everywhere and an extra pair of eyes could help.

He takes out the files he’s put away in the afternoon, and Castiel immediately drags his chair closer to take a look as Dean sits beside him heavily, looking up at the ceiling. He’s so, so tired. Sam hasn’t got back to him all day, apart from a quick text reassuring Dean he was still looking for an answer. Minutes pass by, with only the quiet rustling of papers. He sits up properly with a sigh and begins to read yet another book of water monster lore.

After Sam had started joining in on hunts, he had taken over most of the research, bless his nerdy little heart. Dean liked doing things— shooting, killing, saving. He reads and reads, but nothing fits the facts. He’s staring blankly at the entry for muyso, the words swimming before his eyes when Castiel breaks the silence.

“Dean.”

A hand is on his arm, shaking it tentatively, and Dean jumps up in his chair with a gasp. He winces in pain as he sits up, rubbing his neck. His mouth is dry.

“Are you all right?” Castiel asks him, his hand still on Dean’s arm.

Dean frowns a little. How long was he out? What the hell was the matter with him, falling into a trance with a man who may or may not be a witch unattended in his room, with all his weapons? His father would punch him if he knew.

“I wanted to show you something strange,” Castiel says, removing his hand and cautiously bringing the photographs closer to Dean. “The clothes. The shreds of them at least. In Mrs. Donovan’s case, she seemed to be wearing a nightdress that’s peach in colour with a burgundy coloured robe, and her undergarments were lavender. But there’s this strip of cloth that doesn’t seem to match.”

He points to the edge of the photograph, and Dean sees a small square of whitish material. His eyes widen as he grabs the picture from Castiel and brings it closer to examine it. It’s a small innocuous looking thing and, now that Dean looks at it, glaringly different from the rest of the shreds of cloth. He looks at the other pictures of the scene quickly, but there isn’t a closer shot of it.

“I suppose it could be a handkerchief or something,” Castiel muses as he peers over Dean’s shoulder.

“Maybe,” Dean mutters, rifling through the rest of the pictures to find Richard Donovan’s corpse.

“Mr. Donovan was unfortunately wearing a beige coloured shirt with a white vest, so I can’t tell if this occurs here,” Castiel says, his breath warm over Dean’s neck, and he finds himself shivering a little.  

“His body was outside, the wind could have blown away some bits,” Dean says, pushing his chair back and standing. He needs to go down to the station to have a look at the evidence himself.

****

The ride to Newington Police Station is awkwardly silent, with Dean shooting wary glances at Castiel. He’s grateful to Castiel for his help and was on the point of letting him go back to the diner unharmed, but Castiel climbed into the Impala without waiting for Dean and Dean had let him. He’s still a little apprehensive of the man, but cannot think of any concrete reason not to trust him. For now.

“This is a beautiful car,” Castiel says solemnly, after ten minutes have passed.

Dean looks over at him, but Castiel doesn’t look at him. He’s touching the dashboard gently, almost reverentially.

“Well yeah,” Dean says. “She was my dad’s, but she’s mine now. Practically rebuilt her from the ground up.”

“You can rebuild cars?” Cas asks him, his intense gaze locking on Dean. “That’s very impressive.”

Dean blushes furiously at that and tears his gaze away.

“We had a classic car too but I had to give it up after I settled down here,”

“You did?” Dean asks him, interested despite himself.

“A 1978 Lincoln Continental Mark V.”

“Seriously? A Continental?” Dean asks him, eyebrows raised.

“I liked it,” Cas says defensively, a rather adorable frown on his face.

“Sure you did,” Dean smiles at him, “I’m sure you also loved it guzzling a ton of gas and breaking down all over the place.”

Castiel scowls at him.

“Don’t mind me dissing your car, man,” Dean says and pats him on the arm before he realises it. He withdraws his hand quickly and refocuses on the road.

“My mother and I moved around a lot, so we were on the road all the time. It was a very lived-in car. One of the windows had a large scratch running all the way across, the heating never reached the back, the driver’s seat had a tear at the back large enough for me shove pencils through. Our radio was appalling, so we could barely hear anything that was playing over the noise. The seats were very wide and comfortable though and that did help when it broke down in the middle of the night.” Castiel’s voice is even, but Dean can see the fondness in his eyes.

Dean is parking at the Newington Police Station when Castiel speaks again.

“You may have had a point about its reliability.”  

Dean breaks into a smile at that.

****

They search carefully through the pieces of clothes. The desk clerk on duty didn’t bat an eyelash when Dean introduced Castiel as one of his colleagues, but he’s keenly aware that they don’t have any official certification for him. He can’t waste too much time.  

Castiel finds it first, a small square of beige and points it out to Dean, who smoothes it carefully. The texture is completely different to the rest of the clothes Mrs. Donovan wore.

“I suppose it could have been a handkerchief, but it’s too thick and coarse,” Dean says after examining it. “It looks like... a piece of a shroud or something actually.”

Castiel stiffens.

“I think I know what might be causing this,” he says, and Dean whips his head around to look at him.

“What is it?”

“I’m not entirely sure, but I think they are called midnight washerwomen. They’re said to wash the shrouds of people about to die, so are an omen of death in Brittany. But causing the death themselves... Sounds strange. I don’t recall too much about them now, but I do have a book back home.”

Dean ponders this.

“It’s the only lead we have. Let’s go.”

****

They stop for a quick coffee and burger at the Biggerson’s on the way back to Castiel’s apartment, and Dean takes the time to text Sam the name of the monster. The faster they find a way to kill it, the better. Castiel inhales his burger and fries in two minutes flat and is done before Dean has even finished a third of his portion.

“When did you become a hunter?” Castiel asks him, leaning back and sipping his coffee slowly.

“Was kind of raised to be one. My mom-” Dean hesitates, but continues, “my mom was killed by a demon when I was four. My brother Sam was only a baby then. My dad became a hunter to avenge her... and well, so did we, I suppose.”

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, touching Dean’s arm gently. His eyes are distressed. Dean shrugs and takes another bite. His throat feels tight.

“Did you find whoever- whatever killed her?” Castiel asks him, voice soft.

“Yeah, we ganked that fucker last year. He wanted to open a damned demon’s gate, but we stopped him in time. It was a pretty big mess.”

“Your brother and you?”

“And our dad. We had a bunch of other hunters helping us out too. Sammy was pretty badly injured. His hand’s still- I don’t think he can ever- I suppose we’re lucky most of us got out of it alive.”

Castiel is quiet for a moment, his finger gently rubbing circles into Dean’s arm, soothing. Dean takes another big bite of his burger and looks away.

“Your brother, Sam. Is he better now?”

“As much as he ever will be. He’s back in college, never really wanted this life in the first place. He even tried to get out of it a few years ago- got a full ride to Stanford, a girlfriend, the works. I was the one who yanked him back into this,” Dean says, and the bitterness of his tone seems to startle Castiel.

There is an awkward pause.

“So umm- Where are you from anyway?” Dean asks.

Castiel seems to recognise his changing the subject for what it is but doesn’t protest.

“My mother and I...  We’d never really stay anywhere. We would just move into a town for a while, she’d set up shop and, when things got difficult for her, we’d move again.”

“What do you mean, difficult?”

“Her visions. She found them overwhelming. The longer she’d stay in a place, the more connected to the place and people she’d get, even if we never spoke to them. Every restless ghost or spirit in town, she’d feel them. She would get visions of every crime, even petty ones, that were about to happen, with increasing frequency. She just couldn’t cope after a while.”  

“Sounds kind of like our childhood with all that moving. Sammy would pitch a fit every single time we had to leave just as he was making friends in school.”

“I was homeschooled. I never had any friends,” Castiel says blandly. Dean blinks at him, but there’s no resentment in the other man’s tone.

“That explains you I suppose, the whole pure Galahad thing you had going on,” Dean says, smirking a little, finishing his burger and starting on his fries as Castiel frowns at him. “So where’s your mom now? How come you’re waiting tables at a random diner?”

“She died two years ago,” Castiel says solemnly, and Dean stops smiling.

“I’m sorry, man.”

“I was quite... lost without her. I didn’t really know what to do. I drifted about for a year and looked-” he swallows, turning his coffee cup in his slender hands “-looked for my father.”

“He left you guys?” Dean asks him, feeling a pang of sympathy despite himself.

“I never knew him. My mother met him when she was only twenty, in a bar in Illinois. He said he was a businessman from Boston in town for work. They had a brief relationship, him coming to visit her whenever he came for work. And one day he just vanished. She called and wrote to him, but he never replied. She stopped trying after I turned a year old, and never spoke to me about it. After she died, I looked through her papers, and there was a name in her journal, but it must have been an alias. I couldn’t find any trace of him.”

There is a pause, and Castiel bites his lip and looks down to the table. Dean wipes his hand on the napkin, and places it over Castiel’s.

“Maybe he was married and had a family already. Maybe he’s dead. My mother certainly thought so, so she stopped looking after a while. I just hoped that...” Castiel continues.

Dean thinks of his own father. Thinks of him now, playing the perfect dad and partner. Adam coming home with a good grade on a test and John beaming with pride as he praised him. Adam begging hard for a new book on birds on a family day out and John capitulating. Adam whining for an ice cream and John treating him. The five of them going to the zoo, with Adam laughing as he clambers on to John’s shoulders.

But he also remembers how it used to be. Days not so long ago when Sam came back to a fatherless-motel after school with A+ grades and medals and certificates, his little face beaming just like Adam’s. When Sam wanted a new book or ball or toy and Dean didn’t know how to tell him that they couldn’t afford it. Being left alone for days, scraping up pennies to buy food, rummaging in dumpsters for expired cans when John didn’t come back from a hunt on time.

He clears his throat and pushes the intrusive thoughts away.

“Don’t give up, Cas,” the nickname spills out of him effortlessly. “My Dad wasn’t really... around, most of the time, but he checked in with me occasionally. He fell off the map about three years ago on a hunt. That’s when that I had to get Sam from Stanford. I wish I hadn’t. Sam had finally got out— he had a job interview, a pretty girlfriend, the works. And I dragged him straight back in. But I just couldn’t face searching for Dad on my own.”

“Your father was possibly in danger, you did what you thought was best.”

“Maybe.” Dean says, unconvinced. “My point is, I do know a little something about missing fathers. I mean, there were times when I was looking for my Dad when all logic said that he was dead, but I knew in my heart he was still alive. So keep looking.”

Castiel smiles at him, his eyes soft. Dean feels his heart lurch a little at the sight and quickly stands up, clapping the other man lightly on the shoulder.

“Come on, Cas, finish your coffee. We have a washerwoman to kill.”


	7. Chapter 7

It’s past two a.m. when they go back to the motel, Dean waiting in the Impala by the diner while Castiel dashed into his apartment to pick up the relevant books. His eyes are aching, and he yawns hugely as he flips the pages.

“Found it,” Castiel says, reading out loud from a dusty book that looked like it was going to fall apart any second. “Cannard noz. Or the midnight washerwomen. They take the form of an old hag or three old hags dressed in green. They are said to wash the shirts of those about to die in a swift-flowing river. The sound of them beating their linen is usually heard around the hour of midnight and is greatly feared. They tend to lure innocent travellers into helping them and wring out their bodies like a sheet, with all the blood spilled and drained.”

“It sounds about right. There was no running water where the bodies were found though.”

“That baffles me, too. Also, I have never heard of this occurring here in this area. It is a local Breton legend and, although I suppose supernatural creatures know no boundaries, it’s still odd. Perhaps they are tied to an object?”

Dean ponders over this as he tries to recall the house and its layout in his mind.

“Richard Donovan. He was a professor of Celtic studies. The legend of Cannard noz is based on the ancient Celtic deity Clotha, the Washer at the Ford,” Castiel says, putting the book down. “Maybe he had a cursed object or something. It must have been something recent though, as he’s lived in the house several years with his wife and had no problems. You’ve looked through his bank statements. Did you see him make any heavy purchases lately?”

“Not of this variety,” Dean says, tossing him Richard’s bank statements. “There were only garden supplies and some small online purchases. Have a look though.”

“He did have a lot of stuff in his house,” Dean says after a while as he looks through the entry on Cannard noz on the internet, and clicks through related links. He sees nothing on how to kill them.

“We may need to search his entire house then,” Castiel says, giving the statements back to Dean. “You’re right, these statements indicate nothing out of the ordinary.”

A line from the statements catches Dean’s eye. Three-hundred-forty-eight dollars made for an eBay purchase three weeks ago, for a vintage wooden casket. A sudden memory comes to Dean, of something similar he saw in a display case while interviewing Mrs. Donovan.

“I don’t think we need to search the house,” Dean says slowly, and Castiel snaps his head up from his book to peer at him.

“You know where it is?”

“There was this wooden casket I saw... encased with bronze. I think it might be a real funeral casket or something. He knew his artefacts, clearly. Maybe he saw it on eBay and knew it was the real deal and snatched it up.”

“Can you look up the purchase?”

“I’m trying to,” Dean says, logging in to Richard’s email. Castiel abandons his book and drags his chair close to Dean.

“Here we go. Decorative casket made of yew wood and encased in bronze and enamel.” Dean clicks through to get a picture, and it’s the one he saw.

“It does look like a funeral casket, perhaps one that stored personal belongings of the dead.”

“Great, so we destroy it and it should be done.”

“Or not,” Castiel says, turning intense blue eyes toward him. “We may need to perform some sort of cleansing ritual as well. We had better take a look at the object first and then decide.”

Dean chews his bottom lip as he considers this.

“I’ll ask Sam to have a look at disposing of ancient Celtic funeral items in the meantime. That nerd can find anything given enough time.”

“All right” Cas says, and bends over Dean’s laptop again, his hair sticking up every which way, slender fingers tapping away quietly while Dean talks to Sam and fills him in.

Sam sounds sleepy, but promises Dean he’ll skip the day’s lectures and hit the library. Dean’s eyes are on Castiel all the while, though, at the circles under his eyes. He walks up to him after he ends the call with Sam, and gently places a hand on Castiel’s shoulder.

“Cas, that’s enough. You look dead on your feet. Let’s take a break, Sam’s on it now.” Cas smiles tiredly up at Dean. He shuts the laptop, and gets up, rolling his shoulders and stretching slightly. Dean feels his breath hitch at the sight of the curve of Cas’s back as he arches, the way his shirt rides up to expose a sliver of skin.

He turns away quickly to hide his growing blush. There’s a small _thump_ behind him as Cas slumps on to the bed on top of the rumpled covers, kicking off his shoes with a moan of relief. Dean stares at him, a little taken aback by how _domestic_ it feels. It was only a few hours ago that he was aiming a gun at the other man and now it’s like Cas has always been by his side. And Dean trusts him, despite the John-voice in his head that tells him he’s too naive. Too careless. Too prone to making poor decisions.

“Why are you just standing there?” Cas asks him, his arm flung over his eyes. “Catch an hour’s rest at least.”  

Dean continues standing there like an idiot, his mouth dry. Every instinct of his has been straining to believe Cas, even before he explained himself. And Dean does trust his own instincts, despite his father’s poor opinion of them.

“Dean?” Cas asks him after a minute has passed, lifting his arm to peer at him. Something in Dean’s expression makes him wince a little and he sits up.

“I’m sorry. That was rude of me. I shouldn’t have presumed-” he reaches for his shoes and Dean’s brain snaps into action.

“No,” he says, hurriedly flopping on the bed beside Cas. “I was just... thinking. Of something else.”

Cas continues to look a little uncomfortable, his hands frozen.

“Come on, Cas,” Dean says, tugging on the man’s arm. “Need to be up in two hours again.”

They take off their shoes and curl up under the covers, facing each other but not touching. Cas smiles at him, his blue eyes crinkling. He reaches over to press a gentle kiss to Dean’s forehead.

“Sleep,” Cas says, placing a calloused hand on his cheek.

Dean leans into the touch, feeling the tension drain from him as Cas rubs soothing circles over his cheekbone with his thumb. There’s a dull spark of arousal, but Dean is too tired and too comfortable to act on it.

Cas smiles at him tiredly. Dean has no idea what’s going to happen after this hunt, but he suddenly wants Cas to always be there. With those quiet smiles and gentle touches, the solid weight of his presence in the shotgun seat, the calm efficiency with which he looks over case files, the way he curls up in Dean’s bed by his side.

Dean wants it all.

He sleeps.        

****

They find themselves back in front of the Donovan house by mid-morning, having caught a quick shower and a greasy breakfast on the way. Cas looks artfully dishevelled, with his crazy sex hair and straight-laced outfit consisting of a beige trench coat and crumpled suit. Dean takes a quick moment to loop his blue tie correctly before they enter the house. He still gets a few funny looks from the policeman on duty, but they aren’t stopped.

“What a lovely house it is,” Cas says in a low tone, his voice sounding like crushed gravel, as they head for the study.

Dean has to force himself to think of Bobby naked to stop a very inappropriate boner at the sound of that voice. Luckily Cas doesn’t notice, as they carefully open the display case to pull the casket out.

“Is this it?” Cas asks him, turning it over in his gloved hands. It’s small but sturdily made, with a triangular top like the roof of a house and panels of bronze decorating the sides.

“Yeah,” Dean says, finding the latch and flipping it open. It’s predictably empty.

“These look interesting,” Cas says, flipping the casket upside down, pointing to the base.

“You think so? They just look like normal scratches on the wood from wear and tear.”

“Maybe, but I think they look like a runic inscription,” Cas says, bringing the casket a little closer to the window. “Take a picture. I’ll look it up as soon as we go back.”

Dean snaps the photo on his phone and takes another of the casket for good measure and sends them to Sam.

“What do we do now?” Cas asks him, as they put it back and lock up the case again.

“Figure out how to gank the thing and come back here by midnight,” Dean answers, flashing a cocky smile at him, feeling his heart speed up when Cas flashes one right back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The description of the Cannard noz that Cas reads out is taken from one of my favorite books on Celtic mythology- The creatures of Celtic Myth by Bob Curran and Andrew Whitson.


	8. Chapter 8

“It is a runic inscription all right, but not of Celtic origin,” Cas says, a bunch of papers spread around him and Dean’s laptop a little too close to his eyes. “It’s a Germanic one, so was probably written by a raider, a Viking perhaps.”

“What does it say?” Deans asks him, looking up from his futile attempt at finding a good cleansing ritual for cursed funeral objects.

“ _Askatla a kistuthasa,_ ” Cas says, frowning at his notes. “’Askatla owns this casket’ in English. It is a female Nordic name. It tells us nothing useful except the fact that it probably was stolen during Viking raids on Ireland or Scotland.”

“Check Donovan’s notes, see if you can find anything about it? I’m going to get us lunch, I need to clear my head,” Dean says, putting on his jacket. “What do you want to have?”

“Any sandwich will do. And a salad if you can, thank you.”

“Be right back,” Dean says, his hand reaching out to fluff Cas’s hair before he knows what he’s doing. Cas looks up then, and Dean freezes slightly with his fingers still in his hair. Cas smiles warmly at him, loops an arm around his neck and pulls Dean into a chaste kiss.

Dean feels his breath hitch a little as he opens his mouth instinctively, and it turns filthy fast. They make out like teenagers for a while, with Cas sucking his lower lip hard enough to bruise, his hands tugging at Dean’s hair. He’s achingly hard, and his neck is just beginning to hurt from bending down at this awkward angle when Cas pulls him into his lap with a sudden growl, scattering the papers in front of him. Dean winces as his side hits the corner of the table behind him, but the pain is quickly forgotten as Cas slips a hand between his legs to gently brush against his groin.

“Ca- ah,” Dean positively whimpers as he thrusts hard into the other man’s hand “Cas, Cas.”

Cas is equally hard underneath him, and he lets out a loud groan as Dean opens his legs to straddle him.      

“Dean,” Cas gasps, head thrown back, as Dean mouths at the other man’s jaw. “Dean, please god ahhh!”

Cas’s stubble scratches at him, and Dean’s lips are pleasantly tingling by the time he kisses down his neck. The hickeys from before are still there, fading a little and Dean proceeds to suck hard at the spot again.

“Dean!” Cas almost screams, and Dean hurriedly pulls away to glance at him, alarmed. Cas grabs him and crushes their mouths together again, thrusting up so that their dicks grind against each other.

“My god you’re hot, Cas,” Dean gasps into his mouth, as Cas’s hands wander to the hem of his T-shirt and slip inside. His fingers gently trace over Dean’s nipples, making him shiver and thrust harder into the other man.

Dean grabs at Cas’s dark, thick hair and tugs hard, making the other man moan.

“That’s right, keep making those pretty noises for me, Cas-”

His sentence is cut off as Cas moves his mouth to suck on Dean’s earlobe. Dean shudders and grinds roughly into Cas, his back slamming hard into the table, jolting it away. A loud crash makes them both flinch, and Dean turns around to see his laptop on the floor. He’s tempted to forget it and go back to almost coming in his pants.

“Dean, I’m sorry,” Cas says, voice still sounding wrecked as he pushes Dean off to bend over his laptop. Dean nearly falls over, his legs shaking, his heart still racing.

“It doesn’t seem to be broken,” Cas murmurs, his brow creased in concentration as he turns it back on. All of Cas’s notes are spread on the floor as well, and he busily starts to clean up while Dean just stands around, trying to get his breathing back to normal.

Cas finishes neatly piling the papers and finally looks into Dean’s eyes, smiling a little apologetically. His cheeks are still rosy, and he’s biting his swollen lower lip nervously. Dean is unable to respond with words and grins back at him like a loon, feeling a hot surge of _something_ in his chest.

The moment from before is gone, but it doesn’t seem to bother him at all. He’s beginning to get attached to Cas, beginning to enjoy this weird camaraderie they’ve slipped into, the first real connection he’s ever felt with anyone. It should scare him.

“Be back with your sandwich,” he says finally, bending down to quickly peck Cas on the lips before stepping out. He has to sit in the Impala for ten minutes though, before he’s calmed his erection down enough to drive.

****

“So I seem to have found a decent cleansing ritual,” Sam says, as Dean walks back to the Impala with his and Cas’s lunch.

“Shoot,” he says, tossing the takeaway bags into the back seat.

“You’ll need to douse it in salt water and burn it along with mint, sage, juniper berries, agrimony and mugwort. I’ll send you the incantation that you need to read before. Are there any places you can pick up these herbs from or I’ll try and see if-”

“Um,” says Dean, getting into his seat and shutting the door, mind going to Cas. “Yeah I think I can.”

“Okay good. Now, Dean, I suppose it’s best to burn the thing nearing midnight, so you can see if it works. But you have to be careful, they do seem immortal and you going in alone may not be the best thing. I asked Bobby if there was someone nearby who can swing over and-”

“Sam,” Dean interrupts. “Sam. I’m not um- I’m not going in alone actually. I have some help.”

“You do? Who? Another hunter? That’s awesome, Dean! Do we know him?”

“Um, he’s not exactly a hunter. Cas is more of a- well, he knows things. His mother was a psychic and he knows how to make protection charms and magic circles and stuff. I’m sure he can find me the herbs and-”

“Dean, wait. Is this guy a witch?”  

“He doesn’t have any magic. Well, not really. He knows the theory of it, but he’s a good guy Sammy. He’s helping me out.”

“You’re sleeping with him.”

“That’s-” Dean splutters, because how does Sam know? “That’s not- I just- He’s not-”

“Dean, are you insane? How can you trust this guy? You can’t have known him for more than a week. Where did you pick him up anyway? How do you know he’s not been following you or something?”

Dean sighs, hands tightening on the wheel and recounts the whole meeting with Cas, skipping the more saucy bits. There’s a mutinous silence at the other end.  

“He works here, Sammy,” Dean persists. “In a diner. I looked him up; he’s been renting an apartment for eight months and working for over a year. I did all the checks on him- silver, holy water, everything. I know I look dumb but-”

“I’m just worried Dean!” Sam explodes at the other end, his voice high and slightly hysterical.

Dean can see his lower lip tremble a little. He smiles into the phone.

“I know, Sam,” he says gently. “I didn’t trust him either at first. Threatened to kill him if he didn’t offer me a reasonable explanation. The dude has balls though; he didn’t bat an eyelash.”

“And you just believed his explanation that those bags were just to protect you?”

“I knew those hex bags were harmless. You think I wouldn’t look them up before I confronted a possibly dangerous witch? I knew he didn’t mean any harm, but the fact that he hid them at all... I thought he deserved at least a chance to defend himself.”

“But Dean-”  

“And,” Dean says, speaking over Sam, “he was the one who figured it out that it was Cannard noz in the end. I was hitting dead ends everywhere. Dude took one look at the pictures and he knew.”

“Oh.”

“I trust him, Sam. I know Dad’ll have my head when he finds out but-”

“Screw Dad.”

There’s a little pause, before Sam continues in a softer voice.

“So, what’s he like?”

“He’s... weird. Takes everything literally, doesn’t get any jokes. Surprisingly good alcohol tolerance for such a nerdy little guy. And he has never listened to any good music but the inane boyband noise that plays at that piss-poor excuse of a diner.”

“Really? How’d you charm him into bed? Doesn’t seem like your usual type.”

“Shut up, bitch. And if you really want to know how, I just needed to grab him and-”

“Jesus Christ, Dean, shut up!”

“Thought you were into all this caring and sharing, Samantha. Come on; let me tell you all the dirty, dirty details while you break out the cookie dough.”

“I’m sorry I asked.”

Dean grins rather maniacally into the phone.  

“Well at least you have some backup if something goes wrong.”

“I don’t know, Sam. The guy’s not a hunter. I don’t want to put him on any danger if I can help it. I was only planning on having his help setting up the cleansing. Don’t want a civilian hanging about.”

There’s a small pause before Sam speaks again, his tone careful.

“You really like him. It’s not a casual fling.”

Dean doesn’t answer. He doesn’t particularly want to think about this now.

“Well you know, family business. Saving people.”

“Right.”

“I need to drive back now. The food’s getting cold and Cas will probably be worried,” Dean blurts. Sam’s creepy, hypnotic you-can-talk-to-me-I-won’t-judge tone, a hit with their witnesses, always makes him strangely prone to babbling.

“Okay.”

“He wanted a salad. I thought I was done with that rabbit food crap after you left.”        

“And did you buy it?”

“What?”

“You did buy it, right? At a _nice_ salad bar?”

“Well...” Dean can feel his cheeks heat up. “Can’t let the guy starve.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I’ll call you later,” Dean says hurriedly, and hangs up, but not before he hears Sam positively guffawing in the background.

That bitch.

****

“Your brother is very efficient,” Cas says, taking a huge bite out of his sandwich. “I can get you all the ingredients. I have all of them on me— well, except maybe mint.”

“Can pick that up on the way,” Dean mumbles, trying to memorize the spell part of the ritual.

“I think we’ll need a little more protection though, I doubt the Cannard noz will just let you destroy that chest.”

“Will your hex bags help?”

“Partially, but I was thinking of something more. I can draw some sigils all over the house that will keep them contained at least, before we proceed to destroy it. There seems to be no pattern to their manifestation, so we best be prepared. Also they are not hex bags, Dean. They’re protection charms.”

“How long do you think we’ll need? Will nine tonight do?”

“That should be adequate time.” Cas finishes his sandwich and reaches for the salad. “This salad is really good.”

“Yeah?” Dean blushes.

“Yes,” Cas says seriously, lifting his blue eyes to meet his. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Yeah well, you’re welcome, man,” Dean stutters, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I’m glad they have a fireplace. It’s such a bitch getting rid of cursed things otherwise.”

Cas seems to accept the change of subject for what it is. His eyes are fond as he nods.

“You’ve had cases like this before? Cursed items?”

“Lots. Rings, necklaces, the odd vase or two, paintings... We were in Iowa, me and Sammy, and there were these series of killings. Thought salting and burning his remains would take care of it, but turns out the dead guy had a silver hook, and melting it all was the only way. That was pretty close.”

“I suspect that this manifestation of the Cannard noz may be similar.”

“I sure hope so,” Dean says. “It works the other way around too. An object may seem cursed, but it’s actually a ghost. There was this time with a cursed painting...”

Dean talks about their various cases and eats his own lunch as Cas finishes his salad. There’s something amazing about the way Cas just listens to him, completely attentive and interested, the way no one ever has. He holds Dean’s gaze throughout, and barely interrupts him.

“You do amazing things, you and your brother,” Cas says, smiling that fond little smile of his again as Dean finishes his narration.

“Just the family business,” Dean says awkwardly.

“That doesn’t make it any less remarkable,” Cas says. “Your father was lucky to have you both alongside him.”

“Yeah, well I’m sure he thinks differently,” Dean says, smiling a little bitterly. He gets up to dispose of the trash, avoiding Cas’s eyes.

“I had better leave now. I’ll need to collect all the supplies and look up the sigils. I’ll be back before eight, is that fine?”

“Yeah man, sure,” Dean says, a little relieved that the other man didn’t push further. “Cas, give me your phone number. I need to be able to contact you.”  

“Oh, of course. That was foolish of me,” Cas says, handing his phone to Dean and shrugging on his trench coat.

Dean saves his number in Cas’s battered old phone, which has a grand total of five contacts.

“Wow, you must have a roaring social life.”

“Not really,” Cas says sombrely. “I don’t really go out much or have a lot of friends.”

Dean smiles at him affectionately and hands his phone back, his hands going to Cas’s tie automatically and straightening it, smoothing out his collar. Cas looks bemused, but stands obediently and allows Dean to do as he likes.

“Thank you, Dean.” he says, and kisses him deeply, arms slipping around Dean’s shoulders. It is a sweet kiss, with just a hint of heat. He squeezes Dean gently before letting him go. “I’ll see you tonight.”   


	9. Chapter 9

Unfortunately, there is a policeman on duty when they arrive, and Dean is forced to knock him out because they really can’t afford any interruptions. He pockets the man’s phone and radio, and leaves him tied up across town in the garage of someone who’s clearly gone on holiday. He’s tied the knots loose enough to give way with a few minutes’ work, and he makes sure the guy has his coat on. It would take a few hours for him to wake up and escape and by then Dean hoped the job would be done.

By the time he gets back to the house, Cas has finished painting most of his sigils, including one that is carved onto the wooden floor and has a roaring fire going in the old-fashioned fireplace. Dean begins to arrange the saltwater and other herbs on the table he’s dragged over to the middle of the carved sigil near the fire, which is stiflingly warm by now. It’s just short of midnight by the time Cas finishes, and they haul the chest to the table.

“Is it weird nothing seems to be happening?” Dean asks, wiping his brow.

“Cannard noz are known to target lone travellers you know. Unfortunately I’m sure they will act when we begin to destroy the object they are tied to.”

“Cas...” Dean says, hesitating. “Cas, I think you should go. You’ve done all you can, drawn all those sigils and stuff. I’ll take care of this.”

“No,” Cas says briskly, meeting Dean’s gaze without hesitation. “I may not be a hunter, but I assure you I won’t get in your way.”

“It’s not about that, Cas. You’re a civilian; I can’t endanger you like this.”

“Dean. I’m not going to leave you alone to deal with them and besides, the sigil I’ve drawn should protect us from them.”

“Both of us?”

Cas nods vaguely, not really meeting his eyes.

“That’s not really a yes.”

“Dean.”

“All right,” Dean sighs. “Just promise me you’ll run and not look back if something goes wrong.”

Cas doesn’t reply, and instead smiles fondly at him, eyes crinkling, before pressing a light kiss on his lips.

“I’ll be fine, Dean. You had better start.”     

Dean grabs the axe and swings carefully, shattering the chest into pieces. There’s a cawing sound, and he and Cas lock eyes briefly before Dean douses the pieces with salt water and flinging them onto the fire. He tosses the axe to Cas, before kneeling down and making sure that all of the shards are burning. Cas throws the herbs one by one into the fire while Dean locates stray slivers of wood, dousing them all and flinging them in as well.

A thumping sound starts, like something was being pummelled, adding to the restless cawing by an unseen crow. Dean can hear the gushing of water from somewhere as the forms of three women materialize hazily out of thin air behind them.

“Behold,” one of them says, in an inhuman voice, “someone from the world of the living comes to spy upon our work.”

The fire flickers behind him, and Dean can suddenly see them properly. They are dressed in filthy green smocks, with shawls around their heads. There are twisted shrouds in their hands, dripping wet onto the floor. Their eyes are wide and flat, with no eyelids to speak of. Their mouths are open in a permanent scream. All these features, however, seemed to be covered with a thin film of skin, giving them an almost faceless appearance.  

“Come forward, child of the living,” another one beckons, a slimy white arm extended to them. “Come and help us with our task.”

The others laugh at this, high and menacing and Dean feels a chill run down his spine. The unseen crow caws again as the three of them advance slowly, the sweet smell of rot coming from them almost overpowering.

“Dean,” Cas says, in a low voice, breaking him from his spell, “complete the ritual. Ignore them.”

“Cas, what are you-”

“Do it!” Cas commands, flinging the axe aside and pulling out a thin dagger from his coat. He slices open his palm and lets the blood drip onto the carved circle around Dean before leaping out and running toward the door, away from Dean. The sigil around Dean flashes white for a second, almost blinding him. He winces in pain and staggers against the table, groping for his gun.

The crow seems excited now, cawing loud and shrill. Dean opens his eyes to see the shrouds in the washerwomen’s hands pursue Cas like giant snakes, trying to grab at his ankles.

“Cas! Get away!” Dean shouts, pulling out his gun and shooting at the women. The bullets dissipate before they reach them, vanishing.   

“Don’t come out! I’ll hold them off! I’ll hold them all off!” Cas yells at him, trying to kick away at the shrouds lapping at his heels.

Dean chews his lip in despair, but Cas is right. He turns back around and starts reading the incantation at break neck speed.

“Come, come, my child. Don’t struggle so,” an eerie voice croons behind him. Dean can hear the crash of something falling to the floor as Cas swears loudly behind him.   

“Now,” says another one. “We shall dance and wring out the sheet as we do.”

Dean feels his heart stop as Cas lets out a sudden scream. He stumbles over the incantation as he reads, his eyes blurring. This is his fault. He should have let Sam call up another hunter to help.

“Don’t stop, Dean!” Cas shouts in a choked voice. His words are cut off as a washerwoman screams in demonic glee, the cry echoed by her sisters.

Cas’s screams get progressively louder and more desperate as Dean finishes and whips around.  He is chalky white, his blue eyes wide with pain and the shrouds are wrapped around him tightly like pythons. Blood is dripping from the cuts the cloth is making on his skin.

The three women are laughing shrilly, standing in a circle at a distance from Cas, one of them dancing, the other two drinking the blood on the floor, scooping it up with their clammy hands. Dean shoots at them again before charging toward Cas, but they don’t even turn around, seemingly lost in ecstasy. They are clearly immortal, as Sam had warned him. Dean swipes at them with his dagger when he gets close, but it passes straight through, the figures vanishing and reappearing when he steps away, a pit forming in his stomach.  

“Cas, hang on. I’ll get you out.” He turns toward him and swipes at the shroud with his dagger, which promptly breaks on impact. Dean stares at the shattered dagger in his hand in disbelief.  

“Cas, come on man, hold on,” he tells the struggling man, tears forming in his eyes.

There must be something he missed. He scans the room quickly, his head buzzing. Cas’s screams are dying down to mere gurgles now.

He shouldn’t have risked Cas’s life like this.

And there, by the flickering light of the fire, he sees a sliver of wood rolled against the table. He leaps toward it, his heart feeling like it might explode right out of his chest, douses it in saltwater and throws it into the fire. With a sudden shrill screech, the Cannard noz and their shrouds vanish dropping Cas face down on the floor like a stone.

“Cas!” Dean shouts as he rushes toward him. “Please, Cas, please. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please be okay.”

He gently turns him over. Cas’s eyes are closed and he seems unconscious, but Dean can feel a faint pulse. He strips off his shirt and tears it up quickly, using the strips to staunch the bleeding, working over the cuts as quickly as possible. He breathes in deeply, his hands trembling as they wrap the cloth around the wounds, trying very hard to not be affected by Cas’s waxy, pallid face. After every wound is wrapped as securely as he can make it, he bundles Cas in his own jacket and gently picks him up before carrying him to the Impala and rushing to the hospital.

 


	10. Chapter 10

 

It takes fifteen minutes of anxious driving for Dean to reach the nearest emergency, and he spins a story about a knife fight as they whisk Cas away. The shock and adrenaline from the hunt hasn’t worn off and he’s just about to start fretting about Cas in earnest when Sam calls.

“Dean! I’ve been calling for the past hour man, are you safe?”

“I’m fine Sammy. It’s- it’s Cas,” Dean gasps into the phone.

“Is he-”

“No. I mean, I hope not, but he lost a ton of blood. At least three or four pints. They told me he needs a transfusion. He was nearly torn to shreds Sam, and I couldn’t do anything.”

“Okay. Okay Dean, calm down. We’ve seen through injuries almost as bad, remember? He’s a healthy adult, and you got him to hospital on time. He’ll be fine.”

“He shouldn’t have been there at all! He’s not a hunter; he doesn’t deserve this sort of crap,” Dean bites out and slumps into a free chair.

“How did it happen?”

“Nasty old hags. They materialized after we began breaking the damned casket. He’d drawn some sort of weird sigil around me before we started so it was like I was invisible. They didn’t even look at me. And that idiot jumped into the fray to distract them while I finished off the ritual.”

“That’s-”

“And they really were washerwomen; they had these dripping wet shrouds in their hands. That’s how they kill Sammy. They use them to tear a person to pieces and, when they bleed out, drink it. He was half-dead by the time I finished, and all because I couldn’t get all the fucking pieces of the fucking casket into the fire at once!” Dean hisses into the phone, earning him a few alarmed glances from the people around him.

“Dean, you have to stop blaming yourself. You got rid of something incredibly dangerous, and I don’t think you could have done this alone. And even another hunter may not have helped as much as Cas did. He sounds like he did an amazing job,” Sam reasons, his voice soft.

Dean sighs. His head is splitting into pieces, and his throat is raw from thirst.

“Yeah he was,” he whispers, pressing his fist to his eyes. “I just hope he’ll be okay...”

“He will be, Dean. You saved him, okay? You got him here on time.”

“Mmm.”

“Maybe you should get yourself a coffee. It’ll take hours before you can see him. Does he have insurance by the way? Do you need any help?”

“I don’t think he has any, Sam. He was kind of working a crappy minimum wage job. I’ll take care of it.”

“Okay but if you need anything-”

“I’ll ask.”

There’s a silence, and Dean stares unseeingly at the chip on the wall beside him, tracing its outline with his finger.

“Seriously, Dean, have a coffee. Or something to eat. I can hear you mother henning from here. He’ll be fine in the five minutes you will be away.”

“Yeah I will, stop nagging. And go back to bed, that giant body of yours sure as hell needs it.” Dean says, smiling a little as he hangs up.

****

He does end up having a string of coffees and nurses them for what seems like hours. It’s crappy hospital coffee, lukewarm and bitter, but he drinks it just to have something to do with his hands. Finally, finally, around mid-morning, an exhausted-looking nurse approaches him and Dean practically leaps from his chair to follow her.

Cas looks terrible— he’s bandaged heavily, there are deep circles around his eyes and his complexion is pale and waxy. He’s awake though, and his face lights up when he sees Dean. He reaches for Dean with a feeble hand, and Dean almost knocks over some equipment in his hurry to reach him.

“Cas,” he breathes, relieved. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay, Dean,” Cas says sincerely, with such a steady voice that Dean would almost believe him if it weren’t for the fact that he looks like an extra on a cheap horror film.

“You idiot,” Dean says, and leans forward to press his forehead against Cas’s. He can feel Cas’s warm, steady breath on his face. He breathes in deeply, inhaling the sharp scent of antiseptic, the faint tang of blood, the smell that was just Cas underneath it all. Cas tips his head a little to catch his lips, and Dean falls into the kiss with a sob of relief.

“I thought you were going to die,” Dean mumbles into his mouth afterward, as Cas threads his injured fingers carefully through his hair. “Why didn’t you stay in the sigil?”

“It wasn’t active.” Cas says. “I know you dislike it, but it is old Enochian blood magic. Its protection would have only lasted as long as the caster’s life. It wouldn’t have helped me to stay in one place.”

“Cas... why didn’t you just tell me from the start? You could have- if I was any slower-”

Cas doesn’t reply, just tugs at his hair to pull Dean closer. His hands slip to cradle Dean’s face, and he presses the lightest of kisses on his brow, like a benediction.

“Go back to the motel and sleep,” he says, falling back against the pillow with a grimace. “I feel light-headed.”

And with that dismissal, he promptly passes out again.

****

Sam calls him regularly over the next couple of days, nagging Dean to eat and sleep and shower. Dean bitches and whines about it until Sam gets Bobby involved, who promptly proceeds to chew him out until Dean distracts him by talking about Thanksgiving. Bobby spends the rest of the phone call complaining about a fight he and John had the last week over cranberries and hangs up abruptly. Dean briefly contemplates calling his father, but the thought of describing the hunt and Cas puts him off.

“So Dad called yesterday,” Sam tells him on Monday, two days after the hunt.

“What did he say?” Dean asks him a little warily. The parting between Sam and their father hadn’t been easy. Not that it was a big surprise.

“Just the usual. Positively commanded to me to come home and gave the phone to Adam so I couldn’t say no.”

“Ugh.”

“I told him you were bringing a guest.”

“What?”

“You are bringing Cas, right? You’re not going to just leave him at the hospital?”

“He has a life here, Sam. I can’t just assume he’ll come with me.”

“Have you asked?”

“Well, no, but-”

“Oh god, Dean. What were you even planning to do? Nurse him back to health and then just wave goodbye and ride off into the sunset?”

Dean maintains a mutinous silence. He’s been entertaining vague fantasies of hunting with Cas by his side for a while now. Every time Dean visits the hospital, the temptation is there, to beg Cas to come with him. He wants to swear that he’ll protect Cas with his life if only he’ll stay by Dean’s side.

But every time he looks at Cas, Dean can still hear the piercing screams, can still smell Cas’s blood, still feel the shuddering breaths Cas took in his arms as Dean ran towards the Impala.

He can’t bear to hear Cas say no.

“All I’m saying is, ask him. He’s clearly important to you. We’ve had civilians get involved before, I don’t recall you paying Florence Nightingale with any of them.” Sam says, and Dean can _see_ his smarmy grin.

“Shut up, Sam.”

****

Dean walks into the hospital a little nervously. He estimates he’ll be asked about insurance soon, now that Cas has stabilized. With Sam or him, they’d always just leave at this point, taking care of the injuries by themselves on the road. He doesn’t feel comfortable making that sort of decision with Cas but doesn’t know how to broach it either.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks him with frightening precision that morning, as Dean pulls a chair to sit beside him.

Dean opens his mouth and closes it again, his words dying halfway down his throat.

“Dean. Tell me.”

“Ummm, listen. I’m going to have to bust you out of here, seeing as you-”

“-have no insurance, yes, I understand.”

“You do?” Dean asks him, perplexed. Cas grins at him, wide and sunny.

“It’s a good thing that my id was fake then, don’t you think?” Cas says, and Dean barks out a startled laugh. Cas laughs too, a bright beautiful sound, and places a hand on Dean’s shoulder.  

“Dean, I’m most likely already fired by now. And I have no real links with the town, I was just staying because I had no other purpose.”

Dean stops laughing. He hadn’t thought about the fact that Cas may have lost his job. It’s just great. In three days, he’s lost the man his job, his home and half his blood.

Cas doesn’t seem to notice his expression and simply barrels on.

“So I’ve decided.”

“What?” Dean asks him dubiously.

“I’m going to become a hunter.”

Dean sputters incoherently while Cas beams at him like a proud baby who’s just learned to walk.

“You can’t just- Dude what the-” Dean protests. “You can’t just decide to up sticks and become a hunter-”

“Why not?” Cas asks him, his smile not fading.

“Because it’s dangerous work! Did you just _forget_ what happened to you?”

“But Dean-”

“And it’s not just that, Cas. Once you’re in, you’re in. It’s all just town after town, dingy motels and sub-standard food, digging graves and fighting off vamps and skinwalkers and witches-”

“I’ve been on the road before, Dean, and I assure you, a dingy motel would have been a luxury. The only new things are the supernatural elements.”

“Which are dangerous, in case you have not been listening to me.”

“But you fight them everyday.”

“Yes, well I- it’s my job.”

“Dean,” Cas says earnestly, taking his hand between his own calloused palms and fixing him with those big blue eyes. “I want to help. I can’t just _exist_ like this anymore, pretending I don’t know what’s out there. I want to save people, _please._ ”

There’s a long pause as Dean chews his lip anxiously, considering.

“And Dean,” Cas says, his smile fading a little as he looks down at their joined hands. “All these months, I’ve been happy enough. I had nice colleagues, a good boss who helped me out when times were rough, a roof over my head. And I was... content.”

Cas squeezes his hand and takes a deep breath.

“But meeting you was a revelation. Nothing and no one has made me feel the things you have. I can’t be content anymore, not with the same old life.” He looks up at Dean, blue eyes shining. “I don’t want to be without you Dean. I need you.”

Dean looks away, feeling his eyes tear up.

“I need you too, Cas.” He says, voice hoarse.

“Then let me come with you.”

This is everything Dean wants, handed to him on a silver platter. He didn’t even have to ask for it and yet he hesitates. He’s trying to do the right thing, trying to keep Cas _safe_.

“Please” Cas whispers, and Dean finds his resolve shatter.

“Okay.” he says, lifting and pressing a gentle kiss to Cas’s hands. “Come on then, we’ll need to run before they catch us with your bill.”

****

Cas directs him to his tiny apartment, a cramped, windowless little studio right above the diner.  The pale green walls are water damaged and there’s no carpet or heating. It’s scrupulously neat, with books piled neatly in a corner of the room. There’s almost no furniture, just a hideous purple couch that smells vaguely of cat urine. A cardboard box sits in front of the couch and functions as a coffee table, covered with what looks like an old white bed sheet.

“I’ll need a minute to pack,” Cas says, as he collapses against the couch, breathing hard.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’ll do it,” Dean says, finding a rolled up sleeping bag behind the couch and throwing it over Cas’s prone form. “Jesus it’s cold, how were you even living here with no heating?”

“It isn’t that bad during the day,” Cas tells him, still panting. “I’d work during the nights, and the heating at Phil’s was very efficient.”  

Dean looks at him, incredulous.

“I was planning to buy a heater soon,” Cas amends hesitantly, looking confused at Dean’s expression.

“You deserve better,” Dean grumbles, as he smoothes Cas’s unruly hair before kissing him briefly. “Just sit there while I go and get some boxes to pack.”

He gets some cardboard boxes and begins packing the books under Cas’s direction. They seem to be the most numerous, occupying a huge box, with various herbs and talismans and witchy stuff tucked in the sides. He hauls the whole thing out to the Impala and stows it away, coming back with a spare duffel bag to get Cas’s clothes. There’s nothing else of much value. Cas has only three pairs of clothes and underwear, a worn blue hoodie, a ratty-looking towel and one pair of gloves with a hole in the thumb. There’s no winter coat, no extra socks or shoes, no scarf.

Dean stares with disbelief at the small pile, and shakes his head.

“Dude the moment we leave town, I’m taking you shopping. It’s a miracle you haven’t died of pneumonia yet.”

“That’s... very kind of you to offer, Dean, but-”

“You washed it?” Dean interrupts him, reaching for his own T-shirt in the back of the closet, lying there neatly folded.

“I was going to return it to you that night after my shift,” Cas says, his cheeks a little pink. “I thought I could broach the topic of the supernatural killings then.”

Dean smiles at him fondly, and drops the shirt into the bag containing Cas’s clothes.

“Right I think this is all. You ready to go?”

Cas hesitates and casts his eyes down.

“Dean, it occurred to me... I’m being extremely presumptuous, demanding to be taken along like this. If I’ve pressurized you into this, if you’re feeling guilty about what happened, I don’t want... I’ll just need a lift to the nearest town actually.”

“Thought you wanted to be a hunter,” Dean says, picking up the duffel and trying to meet Cas’s gaze.

“Well I do, and I will, but-”

“Nope, I want you with me,” Dean declares abruptly, and Cas snaps his head up. “Come on man, we worked great together on this case. You were amazing. You always need a partner you can trust in this business, and I trust you, Cas.”

“I trust you, too,” Cas says earnestly. “So you don’t mind me tagging along?”

“Cas. I meant what I said, back then at the hospital.” Dean says firmly. “Sam’s dying to meet you too. I was thinking we head there and stay with my giant dork of a brother for a couple of days, let your injuries heal some more.”

“All right, Dean.”

“And maybe after that you can come for Thanksgiving dinner at Dad’s with me and Sammy. You can meet Bobby there too.”

He extends a hand to Cas, and beckons.

Cas smiles at him warmly and takes it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that's the end! I am planning to continue this series with a proper sequel, as I love the idea of Dean and Cas hunting together. 
> 
> The title of this story comes from the famous poem 'CuChulain comforted' by Yeats. Cu Chulain was a famous Irish mythological hero who was rumored to have seen Cannard noz on the way to battle. His own men saw nothing and of course he is killed during the conflict while the men survive. I love the lore associated with death omens like these and spent a great deal of time researching them for this fic, so I really hope you enjoyed it :) 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and do give a kudos/comment if you liked it.
> 
> I'm also on tumblr [ HERE ](http://randomdestielfangirl.tumblr.com/) and love new fandom friends, so please come say hello!


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